


Touché

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Additional more minor cameos from Sulu; Chekov; M'Benga; Scotty; and Keenser, Bones and Nyota do karaoke, Jewish Spock (Star Trek), Jim climbs a rock (and hurts himself), M/M, Minor Christine Chapel/Nyota Uhura, Minor Jealous Spock, Shore Leave (the concept; not the episode), Trans Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: Melnasz VII was a quiet dwarf planet with three major continents and no natural wildlife to speak of. Everything that existed on its surface had been terraformed into reality, from its quaint young pine trees to its mellow climate and its rustic architecture; even the gravity was artificial. By all rights, the colony shouldn't even exist any more--they had no industry and should have been too far out in dead space to be much of a tourist location.But there was something attractive about a planet so quiet.Or: The one where Spock thinks he's missed his chance, and Bones has a love-hate relationship with the night manager of their hotel.
Relationships: Christine Chapel & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Nyota Uhura, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 26
Kudos: 134





	Touché

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my friends, and welcome to the fic that never wanted to end. I recently dipped my toes back into trek fandom (not that I'd ever fully left), and I got that writing itch--three weeks and twenty-five thousand words later, here we are!
> 
> This fic is DECIDEDLY in the Kelvin timeline (probably a year or so after Beyond), but it draws a lot of its tone and vibe from TOS (and the ongoing cowboy joke is a loving homage to DeForest Kelley's extensive western filmography). I have also happily cribbed a variety of characters from TOS canon; I reject the single sentence fridging of Christine Chapel, canonize Geoffrey M'Benga as a member of the crew, and make a few references to some certain members of Spock's family. Additionally, for anyone curious, my OCs Min Sung (the botanist) and Lieutenant Givens have appeared to various degrees in many of my TOS fics, though this is both one of their most significant appearances to date and their AOS debut.
> 
> Huge thanks to tumblr's jessicamiriamdrew and wristwatch6minslow, who were both kind enough to listen to me yelling about this fic and offer advice and reassurance whenever I needed it.
> 
> With that: please, by all means, enjoy!

Len wasn't generally much of one to have his head in the clouds, but sorting inventory wasn't exactly _rocket science_ \--not that he'd be too much more engaged if it were, not knowing the first thing about rocket science. And right now, his head was _literally_ in the clouds; specifically, that he'd be getting the chance to see some from ground level here in a day or two. Lord, but he was looking forward to this weekend.

"Yeah?" Christine said, and he blinked, looking up from the neat little boxes of hypo cartridges he'd been stacking in the cabinets.

"Sorry?" he asked, voice gruff after hours of quiet collaboration, and Chris's eyes crinkled with amusement as she looked up at him from the desk and her semi-circle of packing materials and half-sorted supplies.

"You mumbled."

"Ah." He set down the boxes in his hands, digging his knuckles into his back and leaning into a stretch with a long, low groan. "I was sayin' I'm lookin' forward to gettin' off this ship."

"Shore leave," she cheered quietly, with a half-hearted pump of her fist. "Hot date?" she added teasingly, rolling her shoulders and neck with her own grunt of pained pleasure.

Len snorted. "Sure," he said dryly, "with forty-eight straight hours of sleep in a bed that doesn't smell vaguely of antiseptic no matter how many times I wash myself or my sheets." He looked over at her, smile crooked but genuine as he settled his hands on his hips. "You?"

"I've got a reservation with my own antiseptic free bed," she told him, voice thick with amusement, "but Nyota and I are only going to be doing so much sleeping."

He tipped his head back and groaned. "Haven't you ever heard of 'too much information', Nurse?"

"That," Christine said with a snicker, "is nowhere near _too much_ information, Doctor. Too much would be telling you about the outfit I picked up at our _last_ shore leave; this black little lace number--"

"Alright, alright!" Len waved her off. "I'm happy for you two, but I don't need to be hearin' about any lace numbers or anything of the sort."

She reached up to pat his side apologetically. "I kid, I kid." With a shrug, she pointed out, "You know Ny; she's mostly looking forward to exploring, doing a bit of hiking and all of that."

"You'd think she'd get enough of it on away missions," Len said dryly, and he reached down to squeeze her hand in his. "But then I suppose we aren't usually on a terraformed planet where we know for sure there's nobody lurkin' in the bushes."

"You could come with us," Christine offered, turning her hand in his and linking their fingers together. "Get _just_ a little adventure--" she wrinkled her nose, lifting the forefinger and thumb of her other hand, mockingly squinched together. "The kind that won't upset that stress ulcer you must have by now."

Len barked a laugh. "Fuck you," he told her, warmly.

"At least let us take you out Saturday night." Christine reached up with her free hand, tucking a flyaway strand of her blonde hair back behind her ear and looking at him with those earnest blue eyes. "I don't want to think about you sitting alone in your boxers all pathetic, eating ice cream and soup all weekend."

Len rolled his eyes. "I appreciate how highly you think of me, darlin'."

She rolled her eyes right back, adopting a mockery of his accent as she taunted, "Sure thing, sweetheart."

He bit back a smile and drawled, "Now, Ms. Chapel, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were hitting on me."

"Oh, sure. Join us and make our dreams of a lesbian-centric throuple a reality," she joked. "I mean, think about it, Lenny--"

"Don't you dare call me that, Chapel."

She cackled. "Come on, _Lenny_ ; we're smart, we're beautiful, and we're career oriented. We're _providers_. We'd take so good care of you, sweetheart--" With a wicked grin, she prodded him in the chest and added, "So long as you put out."

He let himself sway with her shove, scoffing. "This is officially harassment."

"Only if you aren't into it." Christine squeezed his hand one last time before she leaned back, hands spread wide as she raised her eyebrows. "Are you _not_ into this?"

Len put his hands back on his hips, raising an eyebrow right back at her. "And can you honestly look me in the eye and say you're into _this_?" he asked, gesturing to himself.

She stared at him.

He stared at her.

A moment later, they both burst out laughing.

Christine slumped over the table, slapping her hand against it as she gasped for breath, and Leonard had to throw out a hand to steady himself against the cabinets as he nearly fell over. "Jesus," he gasped, hand clamped over a stitch in his side.

She dragged herself to her feet, wiping at the tears on her cheeks from the laughter, and patted him on the arm. "You know I love you, Lenny, but--" she choked herself up laughing again.

"I know." He slung an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his side. Laughter threatened to bubble up through his chest again, and he cleared his throat, placing his closed fist in front of his mouth to hide his smile. "Trust me, sweetcheeks; I _know_."

"God, I think I needed that." She rubbed his back, hiccuping, and then slowly extricated herself. As she backed over to her desk, she pointed from her eyes to his, very seriously. "Come with us on Saturday anyway," she insisted. 

Len looked at her for a moment, drumming his fingers on his hips. For a moment, he considered it--Christine and Nyota were just about his two favorite people on the ship. But, Lord… if the last few weeks- full of painful diplomatic dinners and several desperate sprints across alien worlds- had proved anything, it was that he didn't have the energy to keep up with these kids any more. All he wanted was a quiet weekend in to catch up on some paperwork and read a journal article or two.

He sighed, mimicking her by pointing from his eyes and then back to hers. "Get back to work, Chapel."

Her eyebrows raised and then lowered, scrunched together. "Fuck you very much, McCoy." Christine tossed a crumpled piece of paper at him, tone brokering no argument. "I will see you on Saturday."

He threw his hands in the air. "I'm too old to go clubbing with you, woman!"

The door to Medbay's supply room opened with a pneumatic hiss, and Spock paused at the threshold, one slanted eyebrow rising as he took in Len's red face and raised arms. "Doctor," he said, slowly. "Is there something amiss?"

Len sighed, rubbing one knuckle over the bridge of his nose and shooting a disgruntled glare at his head nurse's smug face. "It's nothing, Spock," he said dryly. "I've just been propositioned by your ex-girlfriend's current girlfriend."

Christine batted her eyelashes cheekily. "Wear those jeans that the Captain bought you," she advised.

"Get back to work," he repeated, and this time- as she laughed at him- she did.

He stared at her for a moment, feeling exasperated and fond in equal measure, and then turned away with a huff of amusement. "Came in here looking for me, I assume," he said, dryly, and crossed his arms over his chest as he sidled awkwardly closer to Spock. The storage "room" was really barely more than a closet; stepping away made for a thin simulacra of privacy, with the sharp ears of Christine Chapel lurking behind him, but he'd take what he could get on this tin can.

"Did you need something?" he asked, quietly, and couldn't help rocking up and then down on the balls of his feet, even as he inwardly cursed at himself for the obvious tell.

Broadcast your little schoolyard crush _more_ obviously, McCoy, he thought bitterly.

Spock gazed at him, something tight in the corners of his eyes. He cleared his throat, a shockingly human affectation, and his gaze flicked, briefly, behind Len. When he spoke, he was stiff. Stiff _er_. Than usual. "I had merely wished to consult with you on the light duty rosters for the duration of shore leave." His tone sharpened slightly. "As the Captain had requested."

"Uh," Len said, caught off guard by the blatant- for Spock- hostility in his tone. "Yeah, of course. Nurse Chapel can wrap up here without me." He glanced over his shoulder, and she waved him off without looking up.

"I told you you didn't need to help with this in the first place," she muttered.

"Everyone's on their best behavior to make sure I have no excuse to hold them on the ship this weekend, so it's been a light shift. Figured I could lower myself to a little inventory work," he told Spock, doing his best to inject a bit of humor into his voice. Predictably, it didn't land.

Len cleared his throat. "Right this way then," he said weakly.

"Yes, Doctor." Spock stepped back, out of the supply room, and clasped his hands behind his back, his brow ever so slightly furrowed in disapproval.

Len cleared his throat again. "Right," he muttered.

Shore Leave could not possibly come quickly enough.

* * *

Len was staring, moodily, into his glass of bourbon. He was really trying to be better about the whole booze thing, staying sober most days of the week but special occasions, and he couldn't even really say he was in the _mood_ just now. And yet--here he was. And yet--here was this drink, sitting in front of him.

"Right," Jim said, decisively, and quicker than Len could react, his hand flashed out and snagged the glass. He tipped his head back, draining it in one go.

"Hey!" Len drew himself up with indignance, his chest puffing out and pointer finger pointing, but Jim levelled him a flat, unimpressed look as he stood to drop the glass in the sink.

"You were torturing yourself with it," he said grimly. "You obviously didn't want to drink it."

"Sure I did," Len snapped, but it sounded half-hearted even to his own ear. "Christ, Jim; that was good bourbon. It's meant to be _savored_."

"Wasn't even from Kentucky." Jim leaned back against the countertop, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes as he stared Len down. "What's going on?"

"What, I'm not allowed to wallow in silence in my best friend's quarters for no reason but a bad day?" Len fired back, scowling.

Something cleared in Jim's expression, and Len felt a flare of foreboding, somewhere in his gut.

"Is this about Spock?" Jim demanded.

Len sniffed. "Why the hell would it be about Spock?"

"For the love of--" Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand finding its way to his hip as he squeezed his eyes shut for one long moment until he exploded. "I thought you two were over this!" he said--said, certainly not yelled, because this was Captain James Tiberius Kirk, right and proper, not jackass Jim from the Starfleet Academy, with a chip on his shoulder the size of a small country. (One of these days, Len should tell him he's proud.)

But yelling or not, it _was_ very loud, and he _did_ fling his hands out to the sides, eyes opening wide with disbelief.

Len slid forward to the edge of his seat, his own eyes wild. "You know, Jim?" he hissed, prodding at the tabletop with a frustrated finger. "So did I! Since--"

"Altamid."

"Right!" Len frowned. "No. What? We were already getting along fine before Altamid. Since that--" he snapped his fingers, spinning his wrist as he tried to think. "Since Babel. That whole thing with all the ambassadors on the ship."

"Since you saved his dad's life?" Jim asked dryly.

Len waved him off. "No, before that."

He didn't remember the whole conversation--it had been a special occasion, and in the good way, so he'd had a couple drinks. _Only_ a couple, and not too generously poured, but with his newly lowered tolerance, they'd hit quicker and harder than he'd been expecting. But he and Spock- and Sarek, too, towards the beginning- they'd had a good, proper conversation, for probably close to the first time in the whole damn mission. He didn't really remember, but--he thought they may have been talking about Amanda.

"It was nothing in particular, Jim, but we _bonded_." He waved a hand. "Or brokered a peace, at least, and it lasted right up until--" he made a show of checking the chrono on his PADD. "Oh, four hours ago?"

"You don't notice what you have until it's gone," Jim said wistfully. "I've been so busy being annoyed by your bickering that I almost forgot what it was _really_ like when you fought. You didn't have it out in front of anyone else, did you?"

"I think we made Chekov cry," Len muttered glumly.

Jim's head thunked back in exasperation, exposing the long, space pale line of his throat. "Great," he muttered.

Why couldn't Len just have a thing for Jim Kirk, like every other person in existence? he wondered sourly. It'd be so much easier. But no, apparently what really did him in was a nice, sharp _bowlcut_.

"I have no idea what I did," Len complained, slouching back into Jim's uncomfortable Starfleet regulation couch, and kicked one boot up onto the coffee table. "He just decided to lose what modicum of a sense of humor he'd found over the last year or so, right as soon as he walked into my Medbay this morning."

"Well, you must have done something," Jim said exasperatedly.

"I swear to you, Jimmy--I hardly said a _word_ to the man, and all of that awkward charm switched itself _right_ off!"

Jim stared at him for a moment, and then a disbelieving grin began to stretch, slowly, across his face.

"What?" Len demanded, instantly suspicious, and tried to surreptitiously wipe a hand over his mouth in case he'd been carting a mustard stain around since lunch.

"You," Jim said, with a glitter in his eye like his mama had just told him Hanukkah had come early, "just called Spock _charming_."

Len froze, every muscle in his body tensing, and then he forced himself to relax, clearing his throat several times. "Well. That's. Simple… respect."

"Oh, I see." Jim prowled across the tiny kitchen space back towards Len, his smile suddenly far too full of too white teeth. "It's respect," he repeated.

"What are we, twelve?" Len asked, weakly, and watched helplessly as Jim settled, one leg crossed over the other, onto the edge of the coffee table. "I'm not allowed to be nice to a person without having, uh--"

"Bones," Jim said pityingly, "you're never nice to _anyone_. _Period_."

"Christ."

"Spock's Jewish." Jim leaned, his nose crinkling mockingly as he stage whispered, "That guy can't help you."

"Christ! Fine, whatever, it's--" Len scrubbed a hand over his face and scowled, shoving at Jim's knee. "I've never been good at subtle. Whatever."

Jim laughed, and for a moment the exhaustion of command lifted itself off of his shoulders. "Wow," he said, with that patented crooked grin. "I'm shocked."

Len huffed, his lips thinning as he turned his face away from Jim. "We get along," he said stiffly. "I mean--not today, but usually. We _get along_. It's not _that_ ridiculous."

He could feel Jim's eyes studying him, their levity fading into a burning curiosity. And unfortunately, after all of these years of friendship, Jim knew exactly how to get the answers he wanted; he stayed quiet for a long, interminable moment, letting Len work himself up all on his own. He could feel it happening, and still couldn't _stop_.

"Look," Len finally snapped, tapping the ring on his pinky against the back of the couch. "I'm never going to say this again, right? But I _enjoy_ all of that annoying bickering, and I'm sure he does, too. Besides, he's intelligent, principled, and- if you tell anyone I said this, I swear I will make your life miserable, Jim, so help me God- but he's certainly not bad to look at, either. I'm not deluded enough to think this _minor_ \--" he shot Jim a dirty look at that, stressing the word, and Jim raised his open hands in a show of innocence-- "this minor, uh, _whatever_ is reciprocated, but we are _friends_ , Jim."

"I know." Jim rolled his eyes when Len shot him a disbelieving look, and he reached out to hook a hand around the back of his neck, squeezing comfortingly. "I _know_ , jackass. I may not have noticed it from the start, apparently, but I've at least known since Altamid that you two were getting past whatever antagonistic thing you had going on--"

"It's only _reasonable_ to be a bit leery of a guy who strands your best friend on an ice planet and then tries to strangle him to death," Len muttered.

"Water under the bridge," Jim said breezily. "My point was, I was just surprised because I've met Jocelyn, at least in passing. She and Spock-- _nothing_ alike."

Len raised an eyebrow. "Probably not the worst thing in the world to not be interested in people who remind me of my ex-wife."

Jim snorted. "Point taken." He squeezed at Len's neck again, his hand a comforting weight, and then jostled him teasingly. "So, 'not bad to look at', huh?"

"You're an idiot," Len told him gruffly, "and I'm leaving you."

Jim shrugged, releasing Len in order to turn and flop down onto the couch next to him. "That's fine, but if we're getting a divorce then I _obviously_ get space, and if Jocelyn's got Earth, where the hell are _you_ gonna go?" He engaged the touchpad in the arm, turning on the vid screen to find something to watch.

"I'm sure I can find a benevolent patron in need of these legendary hands on some planet or another," Len scoffed, kicking his other foot up onto the coffee table and slouching further into the damn uncomfortable couch.

"Are you saying you want a sugar daddy?" Jim asked, amused.

Len shrugged. "Has to be less work than keeping up with all of your cockamamie schemes."

Jim was silent for a long moment. "You know," he finally said, in a slightly strangled voice.

"Mm?" Len blinked, long and slow, as the vid Jim had chosen- a twenty-second century classic of some kind or another- loaded on screen. Odds were high on his falling asleep before the start of Act II, he thought ruefully.

"You know," Jim repeated, and this time Len _knew_ that weirdness in his tone--he was struggling not to laugh. Len peered over at him suspiciously, as Jim's face did complicated things to avoid breaking out into a smile. "If you're really looking for a sugar daddy," Jim choked out, "I'm _pretty sure_ Spock is technically Vulcan royal--"

"I hate you," Len said flatly, and Jim burst into laughter.

"I literally hate you," he insisted, even as Jim slumped sideways into him, burying his face into Len's shoulder as he nearly sobbed with tears.

* * *

Melnasz VII was a quiet dwarf planet with three major continents and no natural wildlife to speak of; everything that existed on its surface had been terraformed into reality, from its quaint young pine trees to its mellow climate and its rustic architecture. Even the gravity was artificial, a series of dark grey nodes constructed across the surface of the planet generating a field akin to that of Earth or another Goldilocks Zone planet.

Its soil was poor for agriculture and had never quite taken to the treatments designed to make it richer and more usable, and the planet didn't have much of anything else in the way of natural resources. By all rights, the colony on Melnasz VII shouldn't even _exist_ any more; they had no industry and _should_ have been too far out in dead space to be much of a tourist location.

But there was something attractive about a planet so quiet--it got some traffic from Starfleet- being far enough out of more populous Federation space without edging on the Neutral Zone to make an attractive shore leave location- and some traffic from other nominally nearby colonies in need of a get away. There were multitudinous nature trails and outdoor recreation locations, and some of the colonists had invested a bit of money into the infrastructure necessary to support a cineplex, a travelling theater group, and a tennis court that hosted the planet's high schools, as well as an annual tournament among the other local planets. For the outer reaches, where most of the colonies were full of farming families and miners, Melnasz VII was just about the pinnacle of culture and refinement. 

All told, it managed to support a handful of small campgrounds, and _exactly_ one hotel.

Supposedly, with an eye towards a larger tennis tournament- or perhaps even a double feature with a bit of badminton- this hotel had recently undergone an expansion. So Starfleet's records showed, and so Melnasz VII had made its way onto a list of suggested locations for the _Enterprise_ 's shore leave.

The key word, you'll notice, is "supposedly".

* * *

Len was among the last wave of officers off the ship, but he was still the first to make it to the hotel. The rest of the hooligans he'd beamed down with had seemed more interested in making it to the nearby lake and its rental kayaks before the sun dipped too low in the sky.

He made his small talk with the girl at the front desk, hefted his small luggage bag onto his shoulder, and made it all the way to swiping his keycard before he… paused. His room was down at the far end of the hall, and it hadn't been a long walk.

"Christ," he sighed, and headed back to the lobby.

"Ms. Delacourt," he called, dropping his bag unceremoniously to the ground, and leaned both forearms against the front desk as he waited.

Melanie looked up a moment later, boggled slightly upon noticing he was there, and quickly fumbled her earbuds back out of her ears. "Mr. McCoy," she said, guiltily, and he didn't bother to correct her. There was no need to be that asshole to the poor teenager working the afternoon shift in a sleepy colony. "What can I do you for?"

"I have a couple questions, hon," he said, on another sigh. "Can you tell me how many rooms this place has?"

"Um." Her brown eyes were narrow and vaguely suspicious. "Seventy-five, sir. Three floors with twenty-five rooms a piece."

"Right." Len rubbed at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "And how many of those have been reserved for tonight, darlin'?"

"About fifty?" She laughed, a little, obviously faking that friendly sort of cheer that was requisite for the customer service industry. "Which is incredibly busy, for us, you know. We have the capacity to accommodate the tournament, but that's only once a year. Usually we've only got people in six or seven rooms at a time."

"So there've been somewhere around forty rooms booked by _Enterprise_ officers," Len said, slowly, drumming his fingers against the countertop.

"Well," she said. "I guess that math checks out."

"And," he continued, feeling a looming sense of dread, "that means somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty officers are staying at this hotel tonight, depending on which ones are booked for couples and who might be splitting costs with their friends."

"Jesus," Melanie breathed.

"And," Len added glumly, "since as CMO I had to sign off medically for every person who submitted an application to camp overnight, I can definitively say that there are only sixty-eight people accounted for in that sense. That leaves…" he leaned back, frowning. "Probably forty to fifty percent of the ship unaccounted for, not considering the light duty roster for tonight."

Some days, he thought sourly, he felt more like a _babysitter_ than a physician. Who didn't make their arrangements beforehand? Every person he'd spoken to in the last few days- and that was nearly every person on the ship, thanks to the physicals required prior to an extended shore leave- had mentioned staying planetside for at least a night.

(And who, on God's green Earth, had advised the flagship to take leave on a planet with one hotel? He knew for a fact Jim had had someone from the 'fleet swearing up and down this place would be _perfect_.)

Melanie's face was white. "We can't-- Mr. McCoy, we _can't_ accommodate that."

"Trust me, honey, I'm running the same math."

They could send out an alert, of course, but there was no guarantee it would reach enough people to matter. Regulations _technically_ required officers on shore leave to maintain an open line of communication with the ship, so carrying your comm was a necessity, but most everybody outside of command turned off notifications when they were off duty. Emergency communications would override that, of course, so it wasn't against regs--while still allowing for plausible deniability should Mr. Spock try to contact you to pick up an extra light duty shift.

Len sighed. "Do you have the contact information for your manager?"

Melanie bristled. "Sir, I--"

"You are the manager," Len sighed. "Are you the one working tonight?"

"Yes, sir." She begrudgingly added, "It's summer vacation, so I'm picking up extra hours while I can."

Len pulled out his PADD, firing off a quick message to Jim. "Working eighteen hours in a row is not healthy, Ms. Delacourt."

"Yes, sir," she said, and he didn't have to look up to know she was rolling her eyes.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he snorted, repocketing his PADD. "Alright, kid." He folded his hands on the countertop, meeting her eyes. "You've got about twenty-five open rooms, and somewhere around two hundred people who may want to be staying in them tonight, most of whom probably aren't going to bother coming by until they're ready to pack it in for the night, in the interest of maximizing their time on this rock."

Melanie stared back at him for a long moment, her short brown fingers toying with the earbuds lying on her desk. "Is it too late for me to quit?" she asked blankly.

Len barked a laugh. "Look, here's what we're gonna do. What time does the restaurant in town close?"

"1 AM," she answered, on autopilot. She probably heard that a lot.

"Perfect." Len laid his hand flat on the counter, palm up, as he explained. "Any Starfleet officer who comes in here before midnight tonight and doesn't already have a reservation, you tell them on order of Captain Kirk that because of their own poor planning, they'll be spending their night aboard ship and can come back planetside in the morning. If they're already too drunk to make it back to the beam down site, you give them the same news and send them on to the restaurant to eat some food and sober up."

Melanie's eyes narrowed, flicking down to the stripes on his sleeve, and Len snorted. "No, I'm not the Captain, but I just told him what's goin' on down here, and I'm sure he'll sign off." His grin tugged sideways for a moment. "And if anyone wants to argue with Captain's orders, you tell them this was Dr. McCoy's plan, and that they can feel free to come argue with me about it."

Bless their heart if anyone was dumb enough to pick _that_ fight.

She took a deep breath. "Okay," she agreed, running a hand through her short-cropped hair, taking it from artfully messy to an artist's rendition of a hedgehog in one motion. "And after midnight?"

"Triage," he said, voice thick with amusement. "If they're sober enough to make it back to the ship, send them on back. If they aren't, but they could be in an hour, dump them out by the pool and let them splash their feet a bit till they're ready to head home. And if they're just absolutely plastered, then you outfit them with keycards, let them know you may be sendin' some more people their way before the night is out, and you pack those drunks into the tank like they're sardines. Sound like a plan?"

"Uh," she said, looking doubtful. "What if--"

Len shook his head to cut her off, meeting her gaze very seriously. "If absolutely _anybody_ gives you trouble, Melanie, you ring me up in my room, no matter what time it is, and you let me handle it." He drummed his fingers, thinking, and then added begrudgingly, "I believe Mr. Spock is stayin' down here tonight as well. If I don't pick up, you can call him next." He pointed a finger at her threateningly. "But that is an absolute last resort, alright, kid? He's insisted on only takin' the one night planetside, and he needs his Vulcan beauty rest."

"Calm down, man," Melanie muttered, waving off his finger. She took a deep breath and then blew it out all at once, already looking halfway between defeated and exhausted. "God, I need a raise."

"We may live in a post-capitalist utopia, but you and me both, darlin'," Len told her dryly. He was already planning how best to leave her a massive tip.

* * *

A shrill ringing pierced through the fuzzy, shifting landscape of Len's dream, and he sat bolt upright, wide awake and half asleep all at once as he fumbled for his comm. There were a handful of texts waiting, but the ringing didn't stop.

He stared at it, dumbly, for a moment before he remembered he was in a hotel room with an honest to god _landline_ on the bedside table.

"McCoy," he answered, gruffly, as he tossed his comm aside and pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes in an effort to wake himself up a bit.

"Um," Melanie said. "So, it's almost midnight, and things have been going alright for the most part, but--"

"Is that Leonard?" Nyota's voice, distant and tinny, demanded. "Can I talk to him?"

There was a slapping noise, an indignant gasp, and then Melanie was back, sounding harried. "Look, Mr. McCoy--"

"Doctor!" Christine interjected.

"Um, whatever?" Len snorted, and Melanie continued speaking in a rush. "Look, these two don't seem _that_ drunk, but when I told them what was happening, they _insisted_ I call you and have you come down to the lobby, and--"

"Lord," he sighed. "Give me a minute, Ms. Delacourt. And whatever you do, don't let them talk you into calling Spock."

"Wait," Nyota said.

"Oh my god, is Spock here, too?" Christine asked giddily.

"Do _not_ ," Len repeated, and dropped the phone back into the cradle.

He hurried down the hall, grateful that he'd had the foresight to keep his pants on. "What," he demanded, as soon as he rounded the corner, "do _you two_ want?"

"Lenny!" Christine cried, straightening up from where she'd been half-draped over Melanie's front desk. "We've been bamboozled!"

"Christ, Chris, pull yourself together." He couldn't help sounding more fond than annoyed, despite all of it.

"We asked Hikaru to make our reservation since he was already calling over to set up a room to share with Scotty, Keenser, and Chekov, but he forgot," Nyota explained, her knees tucked up against her chest as she curled, catlike, in one of the shabby lobby armchairs.

Christine wrinkled her nose. "And your dumb plan--"

" _My_ dumb plan?" His eyebrows shot high up his forehead. "I'm not the one who entrusted their trip itinerary to a guy willing to share a room with Montgomery "If it can blow up, it will" Scott, am I?"

"Excuse me?" Melanie demanded.

"Whatever he breaks, he'll fix before he leaves," Len assured her.

"Let us stay with you tonight," Nyota begged. "We'll be like little mice; you won't even notice us."

Christine held her hands up, bent at the wrists and knuckles to mimic paws, and wiggled them, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

Len glanced over at Melanie. "I thought you said they weren't that drunk," he muttered, and she shrugged.

"They'd be fine in an hour," she pointed out, and then added, voice haunted and bitter all at once, "Besides, I've already seen worse tonight."

Len felt a migraine throbbing somewhere behind his temples. This, he thought bitterly, was what happened when you kept four hundred of Starfleet's best and brightest cooped up in the same four rooms for three months straight. This was why it was a _problem_ when all of their attempts to beam people down to seemingly quiet locales inevitably turned into hostage situations.

(This and, y'know, the obvious.)

"Alright," he sighed. "I'll take them off of your hands, Ms. Delacourt; free of charge." He flapped his hands and scowled, trying not to be charmed by the look on Christine's face as she gazed over at Nyota. "Up and at 'em, ladies."

"My hero," Christine crooned, turning that sugar sweet gaze off of her girlfriend and batting her eyelashes teasingly at him. "Would that I weren't a lesbian, Dr. McCoy."

"Then let's just be glad you are," he told her dryly, and frowned over at Nyota. Was she…? He leaned down, and his eyes fluttered shut in exasperation a moment later, as her snores reached his ear.

Oh so gently- while muttering under his breath about how babysitting drunks was _not_ in his job description- he scooped her up in a bridal carry, and then jerked his chin back the way he'd come. "It's on the first floor, all the way at the end of the hall on the right," he told Chris.

"Sure," she agreed.

He was pretty sure she'd already forgotten what he'd said.

"Thank you for your help and your patience, Ms. Delacourt," Len said, and grunted as he shifted Nyota into a slightly easier position and set off down the hall. "Call me if you need me again."

"Sure thing, Mr. McCoy."

"He's a doctor," Christine hissed, nearly stumbling over her feet as she turned to glare over her shoulder, and Len shook his head and waved her on down the hall as best he could.

"Whatever," Melanie repeated.

* * *

"You look like shit," Jim told him frankly, as he dropped heavily into the diner booth across from Jim and Spock.

"Long night." Len glanced around, moving his finger in a circle to indicate the many hungover Starfleet officers piled into the restaurant among the harried waitstaff. Such was the result, he thought ruefully, of having such an innovative crew--they skewed young. "Had a hell of a time wrangling these fools."

Spock frowned slightly, his long fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea. "I had instructed Ms. Delacourt to consult me throughout the night should she have any problems," he said, with a thin thread of disapproval in his tone.

Len bit back a grin, leaning forward to snag Jim's cup of coffee- ignoring the squawk of protest- and drained it in one pull, despite the over-sugared, over-creamed mess Jim had made of it. "Guess she liked me more," he said simply.

"Perhaps," Spock countered, "she found herself willing to disrupt your circadian rhythms because she liked you _less_."

Len gazed at him for a moment over the rim of Jim's empty mug. "Touché," he grunted.

Jim snorted. "Not that I'm generally one to leave the hard duties to my subordinates, but I can't say I'm too upset I was running the ship last night."

"Thanks." Len rolled his eyes. "Still, shouldn't be so bad from here on out, now that everybody's aware they need to be thinking ahead."

"Should've had a yeoman doublecheck the information we were getting from Starfleet," Jim sighed. "You live and you learn, I suppose."

Spock tilted his head to acknowledge the point. "I have already added an overnight lodging verification procedure to the selection process for future shore leave locations. Additionally, I intend to develop protocol to handle the future disbursement of insufficient resources in equivalent situations."

"What would I do without you, Mr. Spock," Jim said solemnly.

"Historically," Spock said, with a hint of his usual glimmering amusement, "you have relied on the good doctor's regrettable bedside manner to 'grease the wheels' for you."

Len ignored the bait- Spock sounded friendly enough now, but he hadn't forgotten their recent grudge match- and instead reached out to flag one of the waitresses as she puttered past, hands full of menus and an archaic flip pad of paper. "Hey, darlin', sorry to be a bother, but when you've got a minute, could you bring another mug--" he gestured with Jim's-- "and a pot of coffee? There's absolutely no rush."

"Sure," she said, as she tucked the notepad into her apron, and then she looked up and did a double take. "Oh! Are you--You're Mr. McCoy!"

"Nominally," he said, bemused, and gave a slight shake of his head when he noticed Spock's intake of breath to correct her.

"It's just--" she flushed red, hugging the menus to herself in an embarrassed tick. "Melanie described you _really_ well."

"Old?" Jim suggested, with a massive smirk on his face. "Grumpy? With creases from his pillowcase still on his cheeks?"

"Like if a cowboy, an astronaut, and a plague doctor walked into a bar," she said, without thinking, and flushed even more brightly as Jim howled with laughter. "It's a compliment," she said desperately, "you know, from Melanie, anyway."

Spock looked to his side and down, slowly, as Jim slumped into him, still laughing hysterically. "I do not understand."

"You wouldn't," Len told him, not unkindly.

"She really appreciated your help last night," the waitress- Katie, according to her nametag- said earnestly. "She told me so."

"Uh huh." Len's lips twitched. That certainly didn't sound like the woman he knew, who'd gotten increasingly sarcastic and irreverent as the night had dragged interminably on. "But not in so many words, I'm sure."

Katie fidgeted. Her green eyes flicked nervously around the table, obviously finding Spock's placid expression as intimidating as _any_ stranger would find Jim's laughing fit, and spoke directly to Len in a hushed tone. "Well, alright, she may have said that 'wrangling drunk people at 3 AM is the literal worst part of my job, so I really appreciated having the power to interrupt someone's sleep every half an hour to make them do it for me.'"

Len barked a laugh. "That's more like it."

She beamed at him and straightened. Her cheeks were still bright red, but her eyes shone with a newfound determination. "You're on the house for the rest of the weekend," she said, firmly, and placed a menu in front of him. "I'll get that pot of coffee pronto, Mr. McCoy."

Jim wiped at the tears on his cheeks and patted Spock's shoulder apologetically as he dragged himself upright. "I wish I had a recording of that," he wheezed. "A cowboy, an astronaut, and a plague doctor. And she _recognized you_ off of that."

"Yeah, sounds like Ms. Delacourt has about the same opinion of me as Mr. Spock does," Len said dryly, skimming through the menu. He frowned, tapping his forefinger on the edge of the laminate. "Not many vegetarian options," he muttered, before remembering he was sort of in a fight with Spock.

Len cleared his throat, opening his mouth to say--something. A scathing little dig that he couldn't quite think of with Spock looking at him like that, all stone faced and unreadable. God, this past year's armistice had really thrown him off his rhythm.

"I'm sure there are pancakes and waffles, at least," Jim said, smoothing over the moment.

"May I?" Spock asked, extending a hand, and Len passed the menu across the table.

He watched for a split second--it was inexplicably charming, the minute furrow to his brow as he methodically read through the entire menu, but Len could _feel_ Jim's eyes on him. The back of his neck flushed red, and he draped an arm over the back of the booth to turn slightly, surveying the diner.

There were people slumped and dull eyed at every table in the joint, excluding their own. Geoff was going to be having a grand old time handing out hangover hypos all morning, and Len didn't envy him one bit.

"Any harebrained plans for the day, Jim?" he asked, as he watched Scotty half-heartedly tear open sugar packets for his oatmeal as Chekov drooled onto Sulu's shoulder. (Keenser, he suspected, may have been napping under the table.)

"There's a great place to boulder on the second continent." He laughed as Len pulled a face, turning back to the table, and said magnanimously, "You're welcome to join, if you think you can keep up, old man."

Len rolled his eyes. "Sounds like a great way for me to sprain one of my delicate, arthritic ankles," he drawled sarcastically. "But it sounds right up your first officer's alley."

Spock glanced up from the menu, a frown lurking at the corners of his lips. "I had intended to return to the ship after this meal, Doctor. The lieutenant currently at the helm is expecting relief."

"If you wanted to stay planetside, I'm sure Scotty could be convinced to return to the loving bosom of his silver lady."

Spock lowered the menu, looking over at Jim with something akin to Vulcan panic in his eyes, and Len made a noise somewhere low in his throat. "Never say anything like that again when I'm within earshot," he ordered gruffly.

"Yeah." Jim winced. "That came out wrong."

Len glared at him for a moment longer, and then shook his head and rolled his shoulders, trying to dismiss the memory. "Anyway."

"Anyway," Jim agreed.

"Unfortunate phrasing aside," Len drawled, "he's not wrong. You know Scotty sees shore leave as as much a punishment as anything else."

Spock tipped his chin, gazing pointedly across the room, and Len craned his neck around. "Alright," he said, as Scotty jerked awake, oatmeal smeared over half of his face and Sulu laughing at him. "Point taken."

An arm stretched through his peripheral vision as Katie settled a mug in front of him, and Len turned his attention back to their table, offering her a smile. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"You're so very welcome, Mr. McCoy." She smiled back at him, her cheeks blushing a delicate pink, and she poured a first cup for both him and Jim before settling the pot on a little pad in the center of the table.

As soon as she was gone, Jim was leaning forward, pointer finger prodding as he demanded, "Why can't I ever get you to schmooze with diplomats the same way you work that Southern charm on every waiter and waitress we come across?"

"Waitstaff don't make me wear a dress uniform," Len deadpanned. "And--" he held up his steaming cup of coffee, eyebrows raised seriously. "Diplomats rarely have the opportunity to spit in my food without me knowin' about it."

Jim looked down at his own cup, eyebrow arcing high. "Touché."

* * *

"Mr. Spock!"

The Vulcan paused, turning back to look at Len with an expectant expression. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Just hang on a minute," Len said, irate, and ducked back into the diner to finish his cup of coffee and leave a big tip for Katie. "Ridiculous hobgoblins, sneakin' out while I'm tryin' to take a leak," he muttered.

Jim snorted, sipping his own cup of coffee and scrolling through messages on his PADD. "Go get your man," he said, dryly, and Len flipped him off as he hurried back outside.

Spock was still waiting, his unending well of patience reflected in the serene expression on his face as Len's long legs ate up the distance between them.

"I'm also heading back to the ship," he explained, gruffly, once he was within a reasonable earshot.

Spock blinked. "You are not scheduled for duty until 1300 this afternoon, Doctor," he said, and for all that it sounded polite and non judgemental, Len could _hear_ the word "illogical" lurking beneath the surface.

He rolled his eyes, tucking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans as they fell into step with each other. "Never hurts to curry a bit of favor, Mr. Spock. I relieve Geoff a few hours early today, he owes me one tomorrow."

Spock opened his mouth, and Len snapped, "Not _literally_ tomorrow."

Spock huffed--or, well, he released a short, nearly unnoticeably quiet breath, clasping his hands behind his back, and slanted a look sideways at Len. "I understood your meaning, Doctor."

"Sometimes," Len retorted, dour, "I think you understand my meaning and then you purposefully misconstrue it anyway."

"Mm." Spock was not looking at him, in that way of his that veritably radiated amusement. "I believe the appropriate response would be, as you and the Captain are so fond of asserting, 'touché'."

A light breeze kicked up leaves in their path, skittering across the dirty concrete of Melnasz VII's sidewalks, and Len couldn't help his grin. _There_ was that warmth their interactions had been missing lately. He glanced sideways, taking in the sharp angles of Spock's profile before looking away, guiltily, before he could be caught.

"I'll neither confirm nor deny that accusation, Mr. Spock," he said, without a lick of his usual bite.

"I would not expect you to, Doctor." That was _undeniably_ a smirk lurking on those Vulcan lips, he was certain of it. "Federation lawmakers have devoted considerable time and effort to ensuring that you are under no compulsion for self-incrimination."

"And vice versa," Len said dryly.

"Yes," Spock agreed. The clear, white sunlight glistened over his dark hair, revealing the subtle strands of brown within the black. "I also have no intention of confirming your suspicions."

"Then I believe we find ourselves at something of an impasse, Mr. Spock." Len clasped his hands behind his back as well, leaning closer to Spock and dropping his voice to tease, "Guess we'll just have to stick close and keep an eye on each other, waiting for that shoe to drop."

Spock gave him a strange look. After a moment, he stated, "Quite."

Len straightened with a huff, shaking his head, and ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. What was he expecting, Spock to flirt back? Be reasonable, McCoy.

He sighed, slipping one hand in his pocket and gesturing vaguely with the other one. "Look, Spock, not to retread old ground, but while it's none of my business if you don't wanna go scramble around on a bunch of rocks with Jim or what, I do hope you're planning to do _something_ recreational while we're here."

"You are aware that I have just partaken in a meal alongside multiple colleagues, Doctor, as you were one of them," Spock said, in that calm and steady way of his.

Len scoffed. "First of all, I'm pretty sure you and Jim qualify as _friends_ and not just colleagues. And second of all--!"

"Yesterday evening, I also attended a stage production of an original play called 'Youth' on the third continent." Spock's eyes glittered. "If that is more in line with your intended connotation, Doctor."

He huffed a laugh, reaching out to pat Spock's shoulder, briefly. "Alright, alright, I'm a mother hen; you made your point."

"I have no idea what you are attempting to imply, Dr. McCoy."

"Sure you don't." Len cut his gaze sideways, and then- with a morbid curiosity- he asked, "How was the play?"

Spock sighed--an honest to god exhale of breath. "Derivative."

Len tipped his head back as he laughed, the sound rising high into the cloudless morning sky. "Yeah, well," he said, still laughing, "I think community theater's just about guaranteed to be terrible no matter where in the galaxy you are."

With a contemplative expression, Spock walked in silence for a moment. "My mother was deeply involved with the theater on Vulcan," he said, softly.

Len breathed in quietly. This many years on, and he knew Spock still had a difficult time speaking of- or even thinking about- Amanda Grayson. "Did she act?" he asked, eyes glued to the ground and with his hands shoved deep enough in his pockets that he wouldn't be tempted to reach out and touch.

"She did," Spock said. "Much of the modern canon of Vulcan stage plays draws on philosophy and moral teachings to build dense, intricate storylines with the use of two to three actors and a minimal set. Amanda found them fascinating; there is an understanding between the audience and the actors that what is happening within the playhouse is neither real nor wholly unreal, and it promotes a certain degree of freedom both of thought and of action. Though I am sure it would not seem so to an outside observer," he added dryly.

Len hummed thoughtfully. "Seems like the kind of thing that breeds creativity and individualized thought," he said, just a little bit of a barb in his words.

But Spock nodded. "Precisely, Doctor. It is impossible to be certain you have chosen the logical path, without the ability to conceptualize alternatives." He glanced sideways--which Len knew, having briefly forgotten his decision to avoid looking at Spock for fear of scaring him away from such a personal topic. But he seemed, in his quiet way, to be enjoying himself.

"Amanda understood Vulcan culture," he explained. "She did not seek to assimilate fully because she did not wish to, but she understood the world in which she lived and she reveled in certain facets of it, particularly our tendency for philosophical debate. She devoured even the longest, most complicated plays, which sometimes run for nearly an entire day, and when she was not among the actors she was always among the most outspoken of the audience."

Spock paused, then elaborated, "Much of modern Vulcan theater is designed for interaction, to provoke thought on behalf of not only the people watching but from the creators themselves."

Len grinned. "On Earth, we just call that heckling."

The corners of Spock's eyes crinkled, slightly. "On occasion, the effect is not dissimilar, should a member of the audience prove to be more capable of defending their stance than the actors onstage."

Len barked a laugh. "Get up to a bit more mischief over there than you'd like us to believe, don't you! No, no--" he waved off Spock's response, his grin crooked. "Still no need for self-incrimination, Mr. Spock."

He inclined his head, with a dry, "As you wish, Doctor."

"Sure," Len huffed. "Except when it's sound medical advice."

Spock suddenly found something very interesting in the shape of a non-existent cloud formation, and Len rolled his eyes once more.

"So that's modern Vulcan theater," he said, after a moment of searching. He felt stilted and awkward, and yet unwilling to let the conversation slip away. "What about the rest of it?"

"Ah." Spock made a small noise, low in his throat. "We of course have our classics, Dr. McCoy; pre-Surak Vulcan mythology is extensive and…"

"Passionate," Len supplied dryly, as Spock hesitated. "I've read a myth or two; there's no need to be embarrassed. Every culture has its dark periods."

"Of course," Spock said, ever so slightly sour. "Regardless, many of these myths developed within an oral tradition, and were well suited for adaptation as the concept of village theater began to take root. Several of these are still performed, as a means of preserving our culture and heritage, and indeed even the modern canon sees a play written and produced with mythological elements and plotlines every few years.

"My mother preferred the philosophies," Spock added softly. "But she was often consulted during the writing of the mythologies. Her human perspective was quite valuable to the Vulcan thespian community."

"Somethin' else to remember her by," Len murmured. "When you watch somethin' she had a hand in creating."

"Yes."

Spock grew quiet, and Len let him.

They traveled onward in companionable silence for several long minutes, as the concrete sidewalks of the town gave way to a well worn earthen path, interspersed with paving stones, that curled away into the woods. It was only polite, as Jim had insisted, for the crew to utilize Melnasz VII's established transport locations; it was an extension of their devotion to respecting foreign cultures, abiding by local custom that considered direct transport into and out of town to be a social faux pas.

"I always think of my dad when I watch baseball," Len said, abruptly. "He used to coach little league."

He hadn't personally had much interest- dropped it after that first season- but his dad had loved working with the kids, and even though they hardly won a thing, the kids had loved him, too. He'd worked with that team up until the day he didn't have the strength to.

Len could feel Spock's eyes on him; it was heavy, the weight of his regard. How had Nyota managed it for so long?

"Your father has passed." It was a statement, but Spock's voice trailed up ever so slightly at the end, turning it to a question.

"Yeah." He cleared his throat, but it still came out gruff. "Not too long before I ran off and joined the 'fleet."

"I grieve with thee," Spock said, solemn and soft.

Len blinked against the force of the sunlight as it abruptly made his eyes water. Never mind that they now found themselves treading over shadow dappled ground from the sparse woods, full of young, painstakingly nurtured pines--maybe it was some kind of allergy to the sap in the air.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," he managed, throat tight.

Spock was polite enough not to comment. "Of course, Doctor."

Len laughed, only slightly shaky, and raked a hand through his hair. "'As you wish, Doctor' this, and 'of course, Doctor' that. I should've been recordin' this conversation," he teased. "Should I press my advantage while I can? Try'n' get you to spend a night on the town?"

Letting Nyota and Christine drag him to the bar and get him shitfaced might even be worth it, if he could spread the misery over to Spock as well.

"I am on duty tonight," Spock reminded him, and reached out to catch Len by the elbow as he stumbled over a root.

"Which Scotty would happily take over if you asked," Len countered, thoughtlessly reaching down to squeeze Spock's hand in thanks, the way he might for Jim or Christine if they had done the same.

His hand was strong and finely boned, the skin smooth and warm, and the back of Len's neck flushed a deep red as he quickly released him. "Sorry," he mumbled, and very carefully did not watch as Spock withdrew his grip on Len's elbow, fingers flexing slightly as if shaking off the after-image of his touch.

"No apology necessary," Spock murmured.

They passed into the clearing where the transporter pads awaited, just where they'd left them the afternoon before. They were neat enough for being outside, burnished steel and concrete swept clean of pine needles and mud. There were a handful of other members of the crew there, some in civvies and some already in their uniforms, but all looking regretful of their early morning.

"Hey, you two," Nyota greeted them, a slightly waxen complexion and small pinch at the corners of her eyes the only indication of the turbulent night before.

"Good morning, Nyota." Spock allowed her to stretch onto her tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, looking torn between fondness and exasperation. "I trust you have enjoyed your leave, as of yet."

"She has," Len said dryly, and he reached out to tug at the Ole Miss t-shirt hanging too big off of her shoulders. "You stole my clothes," he accused quietly.

"I didn't think about just _how little_ I was going to want to put those skinny jeans back on this morning when I said, 'Oh, I have a shift tomorrow, no need to bother packing.'" She wrinkled her nose guiltily. "I didn't figure you'd mind," she added softly.

"Not at all," he said, amused. "What's sharing sweatpants after you had your knee in my kidneys all night?"

Nyota pointed at him, eyebrows rising accusingly. "That was Christine."

"Sure."

She threw her hands in the air exasperatedly. "It was!"

"Sure," Len repeated, extra mockingly, and turned to Spock. "You dated her, man; tell me, how prone was she to kicking you in her sleep?"

The glare he got in return was downright _icy_. "I find this to be an inappropriate line of conversation between colleagues, Doctor," Spock snapped.

Len felt himself bristle in response, but Nyota laid a hand on his chest to calm him. "It was meant as a bit of ribbing among friends, Spock," she said, soothingly. "Sorry we made you uncomfortable."

His gaze softened, imperceptibly. "Apology accepted, Nyota."

"Right," Len said, and couldn't quite help the way it came out bitter. "Sorry I thought we were friends, Spock. That's a no to coming out with us tonight, then?"

Dark eyes flicked from Nyota's eyes to Len's, down to her small brown hand against the faded purple of his t-shirt, and back to his eyes. "Yes, Doctor," he said flatly. "I am on duty tonight."

"Right," Len repeated, as Spock turned sharply on his heel and pulled out his communicator to call for transport for the first group of officers. He glanced down, catching Nyota's concerned gaze.

"I thought you two were past this," she said quietly.

Len ran a hand through his hair, the other finding his hip as he sighed. "Yeah," he told her, feeling unsteady and off kilter. "So did I."

* * *

"Bridge to Sickbay," Nyota's voice came over the speaker, sounding utterly exasperated.

Len reluctantly set aside the paperwork he'd been catching up on and stood up to thumb the button. "You've got McCoy," he said, with trepidation thick in his tone. "Let me guess--"

"The Captain sprained an ankle."

"Yeah." He sighed, rubbing at his temples with one hand. "That was going to be my guess. Is he ready for transport?" Len grabbed the go bag he'd prepped- just in case- once he'd gotten on the ship, and he slung it over his shoulder. "I can meet him in--"

"Apparently, he's insisting that he'd be fine to make it back to the hotel, if you just came down and, uh." Nyota couldn't quite bite back a laugh. "'Worked your magic,' would be a G rated paraphrase."

Len winced. "I'm absolutely certain I don't wanna know exactly how Jim said it," he groaned. "I'd really rather have him beamed up, Ny, unless it's an awful damn minor sprain. What exactly happened?"

"One moment, Doctor. I'll patch you through to Sulu."

"He went on this trip with _Sulu_? Christ. You know they just egg each other on." He waved a hand, scoffing. "Probably sprained his ankle trying to do a backflip off of a boulder onto a log floating down the middle of a raging river. Surrounded by ice floes--and, and _man eating lizards_ , or something!"

"I don't think Melnasz VII has any of that," Nyota told him dryly. "Turning you over to the surface."

"Thank you, darlin'."

"Any time, Lenny."

He winced. "Christ, that better not be catchin' on."

"Sorry?" Sulu asked, flummoxed.

"Never mind, man." Len propped a hip against the wall and switched hands on the comm button, biting back a sigh. "Walk me through what happened, Lieutenant."

"What, Nyota gets 'darlin'' and I get 'Lieutenant'?" Sulu scoffed, faux indignant. "Come on, Doc; spread the love."

"Fine." Len rolled his eyes. "Walk me through what happened, _pretty boy_. Oh, and pass on to Jim that he's a dumbass."

Sulu laughed, loudly, and his voice got slightly distant as he said, "Cap, I think you've officially made the Doc's shitlist." There was a pause, and he laughed again, telling Len, "He says he didn't know he'd ever left it."

"Focus, fly boy."

"Right, right. Look, Doc, it doesn't look bad at all--a little swollen, a little bruised. He slipped on a wet spot and got it wedged in a crack, twisted it a bit. If we were just out on a regular hike, I'd have agreed when he claimed he could hobble home with a walking stick, but we're six kilometers down the canyon with a couple tricky sections between us and the shuttle we rented."

"I don't know that I want him travelling that far over that kind of terrain on a bad ankle, even after a session with a regen." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, thinking. "How much sass is he giving you?"

"Almost none, sir."

"Then he isn't in too much pain." Len drummed his fingers on his thigh, and then he sighed. "Alright. Alright! I'll beam down, but--Hand your comm to Jim, would you?"

"I cranked the volume, Doc; he can hear you."

"Great. I _will_ have us both beamed back to the ship if I don't like the look of your ankle after I treat you, and Jim?" He moved his mouth close to the mic to hiss lowly, "You're an idiot."

Jim's voice was distant and tinny and ever so slightly stressed, but warm with fondness. "Love you, too, Bones."

"Yeah, yeah. Nyota, darlin', you listenin' in on this party line?"

She hummed. "Insert voyeurism joke here, Doctor."

"Let whoever's runnin' the transporters know I'm comin', and--" he sighed-- "Let Spock know what's happening."

"Done and done. Need anything else, Lenny?"

"For you and Christine to quit it with that," he said dryly. "McCoy out."

His boots hit the ground not three minutes later.

The clear, bright sky of Melnasz VII had only gotten clearer and brighter in the hours since Len had left it. Or perhaps that was simply the difference between the first continent and the second; the latter now stretched before him as a twisting, high walled canyon of burnished red rocks with a river rushing far below.

"Lord," he gasped, forcing himself to breathe through the vertigo.

"Doc!" Sulu called, about a hundred meters down from the wide, flat bit of trail the transporter chief had been kind enough to set Len down on. "Good to see your grimacing face."

"Missed you, too, honey!" Len yelled back, adjusting the strap of his bag as he looked for his best route down to them. "How's the toddler?"

Jim flipped him the bird, sprawled across a rock like one of somebody's French girls, or maybe just a Californian out sunbathing. "Fuck you, Bones!"

"Bridge to McCoy," Spock's smooth, dark voice came from the comm hanging from his belt. "Please provide an update of the situation, Doctor."

Len huffed, moving slowly through the rocks with a tight, white knuckled grip and his heart in his throat. "Tell Spock to hold his horses, would you, Sulu? I'm busy."

He would never understand--

A piece of shale, or a pebble, or whatever you wanted to call a bit of loose stone, shifted beneath his feet, and Len gritted his teeth as he clung to the nearest boulder and recovered his balance.

He would _never_ understand what part of this whole experience was _appealing_.

"He got dropped a bit higher up, Mr. Spock," Sulu was saying. "Looks like he might have a heart attack, but he's just about made his way down."

"Fuck you," Len puffed.

Jim grimaced. "Thank you, Bones," he said, contrite, as Len and his shaky knees wound their way between the boulders to reach them.

"Apparently, you should've been worried about your own damn delicate ankles," Len told him gruffly. The hiking group- also featuring Chekov, Lieutenant Givens from down in Engineering, and Min Sung (the botanist)- had settled in a bit of a plateau between two massive rocks, blocking the view of the river below, and for that, Len was grateful. "Let me see it, Jimmy."

It really wasn't a bad sprain; he could tell that even before pulling out his tricorder. There was almost no swelling at all, and the preliminary bruising was around a bit of a scrape, where Jim's thin skin must have directly collided with the rock.

"Dr. McCoy is inspecting the Captain's ankle as we speak," Sulu reported, just shy of hovering over Len's shoulder as he ran the official scan with the tricorder.

"Well?" Jim asked, impatient.

"Shut it," Len told him gruffly, unpacking the regen and fiddling with its settings. "Want me to just order you back onto the ship because I find you too annoying? Let me work."

Jim sighed. "You're the worst, Bones." But he sat quietly, leaned back on the heels of his hands, where only a year or so before he would have continued chattering on above Len's bent head.

Len strapped the regen into place, surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye, and finally flipped a switch. He reached for his comm, as the equipment whirred away. "McCoy to Bridge."

"Spock here, Doctor."

"Right." Len placed his hand on his hip, glancing among the assembled group (and firmly ignoring Jim's puppy dog eyes). He was talking to them as much as the _Enterprise_ , all those thousands of meters above.

"Mr. Sulu's initial assessment was well conceived. It's a Grade 1 sprain; if he were walking without pain I'd have even said it wasn't one at all. Barely enough for anyone not a hypochondriac to bother calling it in." Jim leaned over to slug him in the shoulder, and Len smirked. "It's looking promising that the Captain will be able to return to the shuttle of his own volition--and _only_ return to the shuttle," Len added sternly, giving Jim a side eye. "If I catch wind of you fools deciding to do the last several kilometers of this trail before you turn around, I'll throw you in the river myself."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Dr. McCoy," Sung promised, arms crossed over her chest and hip propped against a rock.

Len pointed the comm at her, eyebrows raised. "You're about the only person on this trip I'd trust not to lie to my face, Lieutenant." 

He'd always found her to have a good head on her shoulders--a bit overzealous towards her research and occasionally prone to brief fits of temper, but then, who was he to judge? And she always came for her physical on time the first time, without a bit of prompting.

Meanwhile Chekov, of course, was just as bad as Sulu and Jim except more prone to making out with unknown sentient species, and though Len didn't really know Givens from Adam, he _did_ know that they were one of Scotty's favorites.

That was about all he _needed_ to know about Lieutenant Givens, really.

He pulled the comm back to himself, finishing the thought he'd initially been expressing to Spock. "Right, like I was saying, it looks promising, but I won't know until I take off the regen and get a look at how well it's healed. I'll keep you in the loop."

"Thank you, Doctor. Spock out."

With a grin not quite tugging at his lips, Len snapped his comm shut. "Adorable," he told Jim. "He's worried about you."

Jim huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. "I swear, it barely hurt at all in the first place," he complained. "It's just that Hikaru's as bad of a mother hen as you are, Bones."

"You gawe us all a scare, Keptin," Chekov protested. "Even Min."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Pavel."

Chekov gasped dramatically, clutching at his little Russian heart, and she feigned a yawn. Givens laughed, dropping an elbow onto her shoulder to lean on her, and she looked up at them with amusement glittering in her dark eyes.

Len snorted, shooting Sung an amused glance. "We should hang out more, Lieutenant," he told her, but Jim's regen started beeping before she could respond. "Ah."

"I know that sound," Jim said, pleased, and shoved his ankle in Len's face. "I believe we're done here, Bones?"

He pushed Jim's leg down- gently- and scowled at him. "I believe that's _my_ call, Jim; not yours. We've gotta go through that whole scanning rigmarole all over again," he said sternly.

"Should I call up?" Sulu asked, flashing his comm questioningly.

"Spock can stew a minute," Len said dismissively, as he tucked the regen back into its carrying case. "Alright, give us some space, folks." He waved a hand at them, ushering them off. "You're making me claustrophobic!"

As the Lieutenants- and Chekov- retreated to a safe distance (from Len), Jim studied him in silence. "Things still off between you two?" he asked quietly. "You seemed alright by the end of breakfast this morning, despite a few rocky patches."

Len glanced up at him and then back down at his tricorder with a soft harrumph. "What makes you say that?" he asked dismissively.

Jim's true blue eyes were unimpressed. "Which that?" he asked dryly. "That you were getting along this morning, or that you aren't now?"

"Either." Len sighed. "Both. Damn if I know what's going on Jim; let's just leave it at that." He scrolled through the results of the scan and then hopped up next to Jim on the rock, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "One minute," he said quietly, leaning back on the heel of his hand in a semi-subconscious mimic of Jim, "we're having a perfectly pleasant conversation about his mother--" Something flashed through Jim's eyes, and Len made a low noise. "Yeah, caught me by surprise, too. And then the next minute, he's biting my head off in front of Nyota for daring to suggest he come out with us tonight."

"Nyota?" Jim asked. He looked… thoughtful. "Huh."

Len narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Maybe nothing." Jim ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath as he tilted his head to the side. "Maybe everything. Let you know when I figure it out."

"Ah." Len held up the tricorder, gesturing decisively with it. "Speaking of figuring things out, Jimmy."

"Oh?" Jim raised his eyebrows and offered Len a winning smile. "Am I cleared, Doctor?"

"At least you didn't wiggle your eyebrows--oh, good _lord_ , that wasn't an invitation!" Len set his hand in Jim's face and shoved him lightly, huffing as Jim laughed loudly. "You're cleared," he grunted, and he slid down from the rock, dusting off his uniform pants. "But I expect an update every half hour, Jimmy; it's all too easy to take a mild sprain and make it a bad one. If it gives you any trouble--"

"I'll even call you myself this time," he promised, reaching out to clap Len on the shoulder. "And hey!" he hopped down, hands spread wide and smile bright. "You can get beamed straight back from here; no more bouldering for Bones."

"God willing," Len said dryly, as he flipped out his comm. "McCoy to Bridge."

"Spock here."

"The Captain," he said, projecting his voice to catch the others' attention, "is going to be just fine." He waved off the cheering, rolling his eyes. "I'm letting him finish the hike, so long as he keeps me updated of so much as the slightest twinge. One to beam up, Mr. Spock."

"Acknowledged, Doctor. We will have you aboard momentarily. Spock out."

Len pointed from his eyes generally over to the group, eyebrows raised. "Behave," he warned, just as the familiar tingle of a transporter started in his toes.

* * *

Morning dawned again over Melnasz VII, and Jim appeared at his door with a great big smile spread wide across his face.

"Hey, Bones," he said, with a sparkle in his eye that usually kickstarted Len's fight or flight response--but it was, unfortunately, best friends' prerogatives to take delight in each others' misfortune.

"Here to put me out of my misery?" Len groaned, stepping aside to let him in.

"Hangover hypo," Jim said kindly, holding it up with a little wiggle, "courtesy Nurse Chapel. She said it was a nice big dose, because she loves you and also she's not sorry for buying you all those shots."

"Christ." Len trudged back to his couch through the semi-darkness, flopping down on his back with a groan. "Maybe when I'm done wallowing."

Jim snickered. "How much do you remember?" he asked, still far too gleeful, but at least whatever he was doing in the kitchen sounded like it probably included making coffee. "Chapel had your back; she tried to swear you didn't do anything that embarrassing, but I don't believe her. I know you drunk. I _met_ you drunk, Mr. Disease and Danger Wrapped in Darkness and Silence."

"Fuck you, Jim," Len said.

"Just tell me what you remember," Jim insisted, laughing.

With a sigh, Len muttered, "Well..."

* * *

He knocked on the door to his own damn hotel room around eight o'clock that evening, knowing both that Nyota had beaten him down off the ship- given that their shifts hadn't been _meant_ to start at the same time- and that Melanie Delacourt would have been perfectly happy to hand the girls keycards to his room, if just to spite him.

Christine threw open the door, her arms wide and her smile wider. "Lenny!"

"I am begging you," he said, "to stop."

"You admitted weakness to me," she told him solemnly. "I can never, and will never, stop."

"Christ."

"You're missing a couple letters." She fisted her hand in the fabric of his uniform shirt, yanking him into the room. One eyebrow arced high as she reminded him, "It's Chris _tine_."

"Why are we friends?" Len asked, exactly as sour as he was fond, and let her push him down into one of those uncomfortable hotel chairs.

Nyota tossed him a smile--and a pair of jeans. "I noticed you took Chris's advice," she said, eyes glittering. "Jim bought you those, right?"

"I'm going to regret this. No--I _already_ regret this." Len lifted the jeans off of his lap, sighing, as he gave them a distrustful look. He actually _hadn't_ meant to bring these fool things; he'd mistaken them for another pair. "This bar doesn't have karaoke, does it?"

"Why?" Nyota narrowed her eyes. "Can you sing? _Would_ you sing?"

He pointed at her, eyebrows raised. "Whatever you're thinking, you stop it right now."

A grin slid slowly across her face. "You can."

"I said stop it!"

Nyota laid her hand on his cheek, gentle and warm. Her dark eyes sparkled as she told him, in a tone that left no room for argument, "We _will_ find the exact combination of tequila, peer pressure, and sleep deprivation to get you up on that stage tonight."

"Oh," Christine sighed, setting a hand over her heart and letting her eyes flutter closed. "This night keeps getting better and better."

* * *

"That's it?" Jim said, incredulous.

"I wish," Len groaned. "But they gave me my first shot of the night before we left the room, so everything starts to get fuzzy from there on out."

* * *

"Don't take this the wrong way," Min Sung (the botanist) said. Her black hair hung down over her shoulder like a silky black waterfall, and her dark eyes were pinched with amusement as she glanced over him. "But your ass looks great in those jeans."

Len gazed over at her flatly, one forearm propped on the bar and one leg crossed over the other. "That is not an appropriate thing to say to one of your superior officers," he told her dryly.

"He means 'Thank you'," Christine supplied, and nudged her elbow into his. She leaned close, voice low and sincere, and added, "Look, if you're not having a good time you can always leave, and you don't _have_ to drink--"

"Sweetheart, I am havin' a good time." Len shook her shoulder lightly, his laugh a little louder and a little freer than usual. His cheeks were warm, too--Lord, but he'd forgotten what having a low alcohol tolerance was like. "The Lieutenant and I have a relationship built upon incessant rudeness and sass."

"Dr. McCoy," Min said, "isn't that what all of your relationships are built on?"

He arched one eyebrow. "Touché, darlin'."

"You know, unlike Hikaru, I'm good without the nicknames." She patted his hand apologetically. "Though you _can_ call me Min, if you like."

He stuck his hand out, feeling his eyes crinkle with the force of his smile. "Len," he told her, and they shook. Her hands were small and strong and well callused, and she looked amused by the formality.

"Dr. Sung is also good," she said, with a sly sort of humor beneath the charm. "Just because I'm a Starfleet officer doesn't mean people have to forget about my PhD all the time."

"You said it," Len told her, with feeling. He glanced over her shoulder, raising his eyebrows at Lieutenant Givens. "And you…?"

"People call me 'G'," they told him, with a smile that he couldn't describe if he'd a hundred years to do it.

Len squinted. How drunk was he?

"It's better," Min said lowly, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "to just not think about them too hard, or for too long." She clapped him on the shoulder. "I think they might be an alien, but I've never cared enough to ask."

"Right," Len said. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what Givens's medical file looked like, and it was a deeply unsettling feeling for a man already unmoored by the twin influences of tequila and sublimated stress. "Time for another shot," he decided.

Nyota appeared out of nowhere, sliding an arm around Christine's waist and ducking in to kiss her--chaste enough, but far longer than usual. She was, perhaps, also on her way to drunk already. Her eyes crinkled as she looked up, noticing him.

"Lenny!"

"Christ almighty, Nyota--" he accepted the shot she pressed into his hand, again seemingly from nowhere-- "I have asked you a hundred times already not to call me that."

"One more," she promised. "Drink up, country boy; karaoke starts in twenty."

"Dr. McCoy's going to sing?" Givens looked like whatever gift giving holiday they celebrated had come early.

"No," Len growled, at the same time as Christine and Nyota chorused, "Yes!"

"Min," he groaned. "Save me."

"I'm the botanist," she said dryly. "Talk to the Min Sung in Security if you want heroics."

* * *

Jim looked at him skeptically, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table by Len's elbow. "I thought this was going to be juicier," he complained. "So you made friends with a couple lieutenants! They're good people. Givens is one of Scotty's favorites, you know."

"I do," Len said, darkly.

"Not all of the engineers have their heads shoved so far up their asses they don't know a power relay from a pair of safety goggles," Jim said, with a roll of his eyes. "Give the kid a chance."

"Whatever." Len cupped his hand over his eyes, sighing noisily. "It gets juicier," he said gloomily.

* * *

Starfleet officers were crammed into every nook and cranny of the bar that night--of course they were, half the damn fools not having learned their lesson from the night before and the other half having come fresh off of duty.

Around Len's booth, in particular, there were crewmembers packed in like sardines--Scotty and Keenser awkwardly balanced between the end of the booth and a chair they'd dragged over, while Christine and Nyota were curled up in one another and pressed up against Len, who sprawled- drunk and happy and loose limbed- into the corner. Min and Givens sat across from them, along with a couple communications ensigns, and a geologist. Chekov- with a local girl perhaps a year or two older than him under one arm and a local boy around the same age under the other- had pulled over some chairs to claim the end of the booth.

"In Russia," he was saying, and Len couldn't for the life of him remember what followed, but the whole table burst out laughing.

Well--almost.

"Aye, the wee lassie's doin' well at the Academy," Scotty was telling Nyota, tears glistening in his eyes as he fumbled for a wallet picture of Jaylah, covered in grease and holding a lit blowtorch, that he'd shoved under Len's nose the week before. "I've never been so proud in me life."

Keenser socked him in the arm, knocking him out of the chair, and Scotty hollered, "Ye ain't never done a thing for me to be proud of, ye great--"

And Len didn't remember the rest of that, either, except that at some point the two of them got thrown out.

"Spock told me once that he found your work 'quite stimulating'," his own voice was saying, as he idly spun an empty shot glass- one of several in front of him- around on the rustic wood in front of him. It left a wet ring, glistening in the dim light of the halogen bulbs flickering above the bar. "I think that's just about the nicest thing I've ever heard him say."

"He's a good boss," Min said firmly. "A lot of the department doesn't quite get him, but--don't tell him I said this. But he reminds me of my grandfather. All--all stoic and sharp, but with a kind heart." She was leaning her chin into the palm of her hand, elbow on the table, and when she blinked, it was long and slow. "He's said the same thing about you, you know."

"That I remind him of his grandfather?" Len asked dryly.

She snorted. "That you do good work." Min gave another of those low, slow blinks. "It's funny, he's never much of one for small talk, but you and the Captain--he'll shut it down extra quick, if the gossip mill's working overtime about one of you."

"Tell him to mind his own damn business," Len sniffed.

"Yeah." Min rolled her eyes. "I'll get right on that, Dr. Redneck."

He belted a laugh, even as the poor little fresh-out-of-the-Academy geologist squished into the other corner looked horrified. "What is with the constant name callin' this trip?" he demanded, with a poor attempt at his usual gruffness.

"Don't look at me, Lenny," Christine said, her nose pressed into Nyota's neck and her blue eyes closed.

"That is one of the names I was talkin' about!" Len leaned forward, hollering, "And you!" at Chekov's retreating back.

"Me, sir?" he asked innocently, turning back and blinking those puppy dog eyes as if Len hadn't been the one to give him the results of his last STD screening.

"Practice safe sex," Len snapped.

Chekov grinned winsomely, even as his two partners turned bright red with embarrassment. "I can do zat!" He gave a cheeky salute.

Nyota crumpled over the table, laughing hysterically, and the other side of the booth shuffled awkwardly to let the geologist out as she made muttered excuses, her eyes wide and scandalized.

* * *

Jim laughed so hard he cried. "Pavel Chekov is a Federation hero," he choked. "And he saluted you across a bar because you yelled at him to put a condom on."

"Pavel Chekov is a young man who needs someone to reign him in once in a while," Len groaned. He threw a pillow at Jim, smacking him in the face. "Besides," he muttered. "We're all fucking Federation heroes, Jim; or don't you remember how you got this ship?"

"I can't believe I missed this." Jim nudged at his legs, and Len begrudgingly lifted them to let him slide onto the couch as well.

He twisted himself, awkwardly, while he was at it, in order to snag the cup of coffee- just as rich and black as he preferred- and chug half of it at once. "Where were you, anyway?" he asked, thickly, as he settled it back somewhat more forcefully than he'd intended.

"Admirals wait for no frivolity," Jim said dryly. "I was planning to come, right up until Admiral K'then made contact. Then I had to go catnap so I'd be ready to answer a vidcall on the zero hour."

"Anything important?" Len asked, grunting as he flopped back down.

"Not particularly. I did a lot of smiling and nodding, and then there was a lot of paperwork." Jim patted him on the knee. "So had you started singing?"

"Not yet," Len grumbled.

"'Not _yet_?'" Jim repeated, gleeful.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"At least tell me what you sang."

"I don't remember," Len grumbled. It was mostly the truth, beyond a few snatches of some ancient country. "But I think at one point," he said regretfully, "Nyota and I did some inappropriate grindin' durin' a duet."

Jim was silent for a long moment. Then, "I can't believe I _missed_ this," he said, brokenly. "Do you think Chapel was recording?"

"Oh, god." Len felt nauseous for a whole new reason. "Don't even suggest it."

"Whatever." Jim's laugh rang out, too bright and too loud, and Len groaned, fumbling for a pillow to cover his ears with. "Still, Len--I mean, not exactly worth…" He gestured. "All of this."

"Sure feels like it," Len grunted, wincing at the memory of Min's faintly horrified expression peering out from the crowd. "Besides, it gets…" he hesitated. "Worse, after that, Jim boy."

* * *

"Ms. Delacourt," Len said, cheerfully, as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other on his slightly drifting path across the hotel lobby.

"Mr. McCoy," she answered, sounding torn between apathetic and amused. Her dark purple combat boots were kicked up on the desk, and her earbuds dangled around her neck like she'd just taken them out when she saw him coming. Her hair still resembled a hedgehog. "You, uh. Seem like you've been having a good night."

"I am." Len breathed in deep and breathed out slowly, his heart rate just a little too high in his chest. He hated that feeling; one of the things he had found didn't miss about being drunk. Still. "Havin' a _great_ night," he admitted. He gave her an amused glance, and swayed a few feet further to the right than he'd intended as he continued walking. "I haven't been drinkin' much recently, so this is--" He waved a hand.

"Wow," she said dryly. "I wouldn't offer this except I know you gave my girlfriend a wildly generous tip on your breakfast this morning, so. Do you need a hand getting back to your room?"

He laughed, softly. "Someone," he said, giving her a pointed look, "gave my room away to Ny and Chris. An' while I love them dearly, I am not interested in crashin' their, ah." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "Alone time. Nor--" he held up a finger-- "are they interested in havin' me there."

Her nose wrinkled. "Sorry."

"Oh, sweetheart, I wasn't tryin' to imply anythin'." He had reached his penultimate destination, and rapped his knuckles smugly against the glass separating him from the concrete patio and the pool within. "Just explainin'. I'm gonna stay here for a minute with my feet in the water, an' then I'll head on back t' the ship for the night."

Melanie still looked guilty. "Mr. McCoy," she began, and then trailed off. They both knew there wasn't a room- or, after the applications he'd signed off on that morning, a campsite- left on the whole of Melnasz VII.

"I really am a doctor, you know." His smile felt so natural, when normally it pulled against his cheeks.

"Yeah, man, but it's funny the way you twitch every time I say 'mister'." She drummed her nails on the desk, and then offered, "I could at least turn on some music, for you, if you wanted. Or the underwater lights."

"Maybe just the lights," he said, thoughtful, as he pulled open the door. "Goodnight, Ms. Delacourt."

It was a beautiful night.

There was a chill to the air that he didn't feel the way he ought to, his cheeks and his fingers booze warm and heavy in that way you started to feel after one or two too many. He carefully toed off his shoes and then stripped away his socks, tucking the latter into the former, before he fought with those abominably tight jeans Jim had bought him to get them to roll a few inches up the calves.

The water glistened, dancing over the green tinged lights that ran in a thin line just above the pool floor. It was cool and refreshing around his ankles and over the bones of his feet, and the sky stretched above him, clear and cloudless.

Where San Francisco's light pollution meant that most times the only stars you saw were the nearby wink and flicker of the satellites and space stations, Melnasz VII was about as close to backwoods as it was possible to get without heading to Mississippi. He settled back on the heels of his palms, chin tipped to those stars he'd never meant to fall in love with, and wondered which little speck of light up there might not have been the _Enterprise_.

That one had a particularly friendly twinkle. Maybe that was it.

"Do you need a jacket, or anything, Mr. McCoy?" Melanie asked, sticking her head out of the patio door, and Len waved her off.

"I'm alright, darlin'. Worry about yourself."

"Ugh. Whatever." She threw her hands up, her eyes nearly rolling back in her head with the force of her disdain. "I'm done being nice, jackass."

He laughed, which he was pretty sure he'd done a lot that night, even if he couldn't remember any of the jokes.

Len sat there until his toes pruned up, then he crossed his legs beneath himself and sat there a while longer. By the time the third moon had crossed its apex in the sky, he was pretty sure he was capable of walking in a straight line.

"Ms. Delacourt," he said, tiredly, as he trudged back across her lobby. "You need a raise."

"You and me both, brother," she answered. "Get some sleep, would you? You look like death."

"Your hair looks like a hedgehog."

"Thank you," she said, sounding genuinely touched. "Now get the fuck out of my hotel; you're dripping."

Len assumed he had complied, though he didn't really remember much of anything else before he'd reached the ship. Or slightly afterwards, actually; he didn't remember the transport, or the beginning of the walk back to his quarters. He just remembered--

"Spock!" he yelped, with almost comical surprise, as he jerked to a stumbling stop just before running into the man. "Christ, what are you doing up at this hour?"

"I am on duty, Doctor," Spock answered, slightly tart, as he turned a clearly disapproving eye to Len's state of dishevelment. "I would prefer to ask you the same question."

Len laid a hand on his chest. " _I'm_ drunk, and also on my way to bed." His lips twitched. "That's the best answer I've got for you right about now."

Spock's brow furrowed. He caught Len by the upper arm, where the sleeve of his t-shirt stretched over it, to steer him gently back the way he'd come. "Doctor, you are quite intoxicated," he said kindly. "You are staying on the surface for the duration of our leave; you specifically requested daytime duty shifts such as to allow yourself to do so."

Len harrumphed, digging in his heels to bring them to a stop, there in the middle of that curving chrome hallway. "I'm not _that_ drunk," he snapped, then begrudgingly admitted, "any more." He tried to extricate himself, but Spock's grip- though gentle- was unyielding.

"I'm not lyin', Spock!" he exploded, too tired not to get riled up. "Chris and Ny bullied their way into stealin' my reservation, so here I am!"

A shadow of that dark, cold thing he'd recently been seeing a lot of flashed across Spock's face, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. "I do not take your meaning, Doctor," he said, quietly. "I was under the impression…" he hesitated. "The changed nature of your relationship," he restarted haltingly.

Len squinted at him, feeling like there was something he was missing here--some great big puzzle piece that slotted neatly into every gap of confusion from the last three days. "Spit it out, man," he said tiredly. "I may've stopped drinkin' enough hours ago to feel my knees again, but it's still two in the mornin'."

"Why have you not stayed with Nyota and Christine?" Spock asked, almost tentative. "You three have become… quite close."

"They're two of my best friends," Len said, slowly. He was starting to get an idea of the shape of that missing puzzle piece. "Just like Jim." He swallowed, hard, and forced himself to add, "Just like _you_."

Spock blinked. He released Len's arm, slowly, and tucked his hands neatly behind his back. "I misunderstood," he said stiffly, "your usage of the word 'propositioned' three mornings ago."

Len ran his hand over his mouth, thinking very hard and not quite getting anywhere. That was where this had all started, then? Spock thinking he was dating Christine? Or was it--

"I wouldn't have done that," he said, breathing out heavily. "Datin' your ex without lettin' you know first. I won't say I'd ask _permission_ , because I'm a grown adult and so is Nyota, but I would have _told_ you."

Spock looked at him in silence for a long moment. "I think perhaps we are once again talking at cross purposes, Doctor," he finally said.

"Then enlighten me, Mr. Spock," Len said, with his mouth pinched at the corners and his eyes tracking over those sharp, clean lines in Spock's face.

He seemed--stricken. Frozen in place beneath familiar astringent lights, the engines of the _Enterprise_ rumbling distantly beneath their feet.

"Let's move this somewhere more private," Len suggested. He felt more and more sober with every passing second--and, in the way of the no-longer-drunks everywhere, more and more in need of a shower and a chance to brush his teeth.

"The ship is at its minimum population for light duty, Doctor," Spock protested, but he fell into step as Len began to trudge once more toward his quarters. "There is only a 17.396% chance of encountering another officer at--"

"We encountered each other." Len tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck. "And the lodging issues mean there are more people aboard ship at this time of night than usual for an extended shore leave."

Spock seemed affronted, but not in a way that was unusual for their conversations. "I included that fact in my calculations, Doctor." He paused, then added begrudgingly, "Though your point regarding our mutual chance encounter is well received."

"I'm flattered," Len said dryly, as he led the way into his rooms. That vague antiseptic smell, layered with the stale overtone of recycled air and laundry detergent, was--well, he hated to admit it, but it was almost comforting.

"Lights, ten percent." He gestured towards the couch, even as he headed for the bathroom he shared with Scotty. "Take a load off, make yourself comfortable," he mumbled. "I'll just be a minute. Feel free to go ahead and start explainin', if you'd like."

Spock surveyed the living space with his usual critical eye, standing in the center of the space and slowly turning about a fixed point. "You have not done much to personalize your rooms, Doctor," he observed.

Len was fumbling about for a new tube of toothpaste, his own lying useless thousands of meters below on a hotel bathroom countertop. "I'm generally a bit busy for interior decorating, Spock." He made a noise of victory- finding unused toothpaste and a fresh toothbrush, who cared if both technically belonged to Scotty- and reemerged briefly into the mainroom to spread his hands wide. "An explanation, please. You've had a bug up your ass for the last three days, and I haven't the slightest why."

Spock's lips tightened, the microexpression barely visible in the dim lighting. "This is difficult for me, Doctor. I do not generally discuss…"

"Emotions," Len said dryly. He put the toothpaste on the brush, his own expression going pinched as he added sourly, "That's an understatement." He shoved the brush into his mouth, words slightly mumbled as he snapped, "Usually, you don't even like admittin' you have 'em."

He ducked back into the bathroom, neither bothering to wait for a response nor close the door behind himself.

Cinnamon toothpaste, he decided as he brushed, was the work of the devil. What the hell was wrong with Scotty? Probably almost as much as was wrong with Spock. He spit.

"Christ, McCoy," he muttered, leaned over the sink. "Be a bigger asshole, why don't you?"

The sonics of the sink obliterated the toothpaste into dust, slithering down the drain.

Len ran a hand over his face as he straightened back up. He felt like roadkill, more or less, after the previous night's constantly interrupted sleep and the ever-receding protective armor of a high blood alcohol content. He felt like the slightest rattle of his cage would send him shaking apart, just like that toothpaste.

"Christ," he said again, and emerged to find Spock still standing in the center of his living room, looking lost.

They watched each other for a moment.

Len took a seat on the couch.

After only a moment of hesitation, Spock followed, sitting perched on the edge of a cushion with his back so straight it hurt Len just to look at it, and his warm hands folded primly over his knees.

"You're on duty," Len reminded him, his tone rounded and soft with both exhaustion and fondness. Their knees almost touched, Len's in his jeans and Spock's in the neat black fabric of the Starfleet uniform. "Best make it quick, before someone needs you."

Spock breathed in and breathed out, his chest rising and falling with a deliberate purpose, and then his dark eyes looked away. "I have told you before," he began, "that I have the utmost respect for you."

"Do you now?" Len asked, the words bitter in his mouth. He knew just when Spock had said it before; his uniform was stained green with blood, just before Len was certain he was about to die alone on an alien planet.

"Yes," Spock said, simply. "The respect I have for you, Leonard--" a chill ran down his spine, hearing his own name from Spock's ever professional mouth-- "is quite akin to…"

He grew silent, yet agitated (by his standards) as he unfolded his hands to instead place them flat on his knees.

Len blinked. "To?" he demanded.

"Leonard," Spock said frustratedly, finally looking at him once more, "given the context of this conversation, can you not see what I am attempting to say?"

"Not in the slightest!" He threw his hands up, his eyes looking towards a heaven that existed in any arbitrary direction here at the edge of space. "You cryptic hobgoblin son of a--"

"I hold the same respect for you which I have, in the past, held for Nyota," Spock snapped. "I do not wish to put it more plainly, Doctor. That I believed Lieutenant Uhura was involved with yourself was of little concern to me, compared to the idea that _you_ were involved with _anyone_."

He stood, tugging sharply at the bottom of his uniform shirt to straighten it, and practically clicked his heels with the sharpness of his posture. "I admit I did not handle this… _emotion_ in the most appropriate of manners, and for that I apologize, but I assure you that in the future I shall endeavor--"

Len made a quiet noise, low in the back of his throat, and Spock's mouth snapped shut.

How much had he had to drink, again? Len wondered distantly. His limbs felt like they were made of static.

Spock opened his mouth again without seeming to find a word to say: once more looking lost, once more looking stricken, and having misplaced the embarrassed anger which had been driving him the last few minutes.

Len'd had no idea.

"I had no idea," he croaked.

"As you stated," Spock said, stiffly. "I do not prefer to admit to emotions, particularly ones with such--weight. I did not intend for you to be aware."

"I... respect you, too," Len said haltingly. "Like that. In that--in that way."

Spock blinked. "I see."

"Can I--" He licked his lips. "Would you--" He had no idea what he was trying to say.

After a moment, his dark eyes even darker in the dim lighting, Spock sank back into his position on the couch. Their knees brushed, and Len shivered once more.

"I see," Spock repeated, his eyes glued to the point of contact. They flicked up, meeting Len's, and he noted distantly that the tips of Spock's ears were flushed ever so slightly green. "You are drunk, Doctor," he added, and the deep rumble of his voice was--

Well, it was really something.

Len slid his arm over the back of the couch, not quite touching Spock, as he leaned in to point out, "Not much. Not any more." He studied Spock, those thin laugh lines that hadn't quite taken root at the corners of his lips, of his eyes. "But you're on duty."

"There is little I am needed for," Spock said, and he leaned forward and kissed Len.

It was--

It was--

His lips were soft, and his hair softer as Len ran his fingers through it, purposefully messing as much of it as possible just to feel Spock huff his annoyance against his lips. He leaned ever so slowly away, letting Spock chase him and keeping him close with one broad hand curled about the nape of his neck.

Len's teeth grazed Spock's lower lip.

Spock's bony knees found their way to either side of Len's hips.

Two sets of hands teased their way slowly towards skin, even as Len was forced to pull back from the ever-deepening kiss, gasping for breath and letting the back of his head thunk against the back of the couch.

"Christ," he said.

"Never met him," Spock said, dismissive, and his long clever fingers were finding the hem of Len's t-shirt and pulling insistently. "Off."

"Pushy," Len accused, wrapping an arm around Spock's hips to steady himself as he leaned forward and let Spock strip him of the offending article of clothing.

Spock sat back, and his dark eyes studied the newly exposed skin. Undoubtedly, Len thought dryly, Vulcans had some sort of low light vision that allowed them to see a hell of a lot more at a time like this than their oh-so-inferior human counterparts, and--

"You are thinking," Spock said teasingly, "too loudly."

His palm wrapped about Len's ribcage, just above where a Vulcan's heart would reside, and his thumb stroked gently across a top surgery scar so old that half the time Len forgot it was even there.

"Prefer them dumb, do you?" Len teased, pulling him back close to nudge his nose at the line of Spock's jaw. "Not a thought in their pretty heads?"

"I shall tell Nyota you said that." Spock tipped his head to the side, but Len was too busy laughing to take the invitation for what it was.

"You're a character, Spock." He kissed him again, drunk all over on just the residual taste of spicy Vulcan tea. "I can't believe I'm here."

"We are in _your_ quarters, Doctor," Spock pointed out, with that playful glitter in his eye.

"Fine, then I can't believe _you're_ here." Len fumbled one hand beneath the hem of Spock's undershirt, already exposed by the rucking of his overshirt, and pressed warm fingers to warmer skin. Spock's eyes fluttered shut as he arched into the touch, and Len drank in the sight with wide, wide eyes.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he breathed.

Spock frowned, that blissful expression slipping away as quickly as it had come. "Do not even joke, Leonard," he said, sternly.

Len's heart did something complicated against the inside of his ribcage, and he swallowed hard. "Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, I won't. I--"

Spock cut him off with another kiss, hitching himself closer with a finger tucked through the belt loops of Len's ridiculous Jim-given jeans.

"They are not ridiculous," he murmured, trailing the words along the stubble of Len's jaw. "The Captain purchased a highly flattering pair of pants for you, Leonard."

"You just say that because you like him better," Len scoffed, and he grinned at the amused glitter in Spock's eye as--

Huh.

His palm fit against the bone of Len's hip like they'd been made for each other, and his lips trailing across his clavicle felt--

Well, it was really something.

"Stop reading my mind," he accused, when Spock laughed ever-so-quietly into his skin.

"Stop thinking so loudly."

"Don't make me bite you."

Spock drew back, one eyebrow raised, and Len raised one in return, feeling heat flush over his face and the back of his neck. "Let's, uh." He cleared his throat. "Off," he said, desperately, picking at the hem of Spock's undershirt and letting the thermal fabric snap lightly back into place. "I want to--"

Spock's comm chirped, and they both froze.

"I am on duty," Spock said, his face blank and tone unreadable. "I must--"

The comm chirped, again, and he sat back on Len's knees, his cheeks flushed with warmth and embarrassment, as he reached for his belt and flipped the device open. "Spock," he said, crisply.

Len let his head drop back against the back of the couch and buried his face behind his hands.

"It's me," Jim sighed. "Finally off the call; the Admiral is demanding a few things before the morning. I could deal with it alone, but two heads are faster than one, and while I grabbed some shuteye this evening in anticipation of something like this, I still wouldn't mind a bit more before the morning."

Spock wasn't looking at Len; his eyes were fixed, blankly, on the bare wall of the living space. "I can be there shortly, Captain."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a godsend, Mr. Spock?"

"No, Captain. I do not believe they have."

"Well, allow me to be the first. Lunch on me tomorrow. Kirk out."

Spock flipped the comm shut. "Doctor," he said, haltingly. "Leonard…"

"Go," Len said, dryly. "Just invite me to lunch, would you? So long as Jim's paying."

Spock sat there for a moment, comm in hand, and then he was on his feet, his clever fingers making quick work of straightening out his bowlcut and tugging his uniform back into place.

"Presentable," Len declared him, and bent over with a grunt to retrieve his t-shirt from the floor. "As much as you ever can be, with that haircut," he added.

Spock sighed. "Goodnight, Doctor."

"Goodnight," Len echoed. His heart did that thing in his chest again, and he swallowed heavily, tugging the shirt back over his head.

When he'd finished, the door was sliding shut behind Spock.

"Right," he said, feeling no less unsteady and off kilter than he had after their fight that morning, except this time he was pretty sure it was his own fault. "Right."

* * *

Jim drummed his fingers against Len's knee, looking--well, Len wasn't quite sure how to describe the expression on his face. Thoughtful, maybe, but more suspicious than that.

"Surprised?" Len asked, dryly.

"Not particularly," Jim sighed. "Remember that inkling I got right after you fixed my sprain? It was along these lines."

Len ran a hand over his mouth, shifting deeper into the couch cushions and shoving with annoyance at Jim's thigh. "That's why they made you the Captain, I suppose," he muttered sourly.

Jim swatted at his legs, rolling his eyes. "No need to kick me; I didn't tank your sex life on purpose."

"Sure you didn't."

"So what happened next?"

"What happened next?!" Len asked, incredulously. "What happened is I crawled out of those jeans after twenty minutes of strugglin', pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and passed out!"

"You said it got worse, Bones! 'Worse' is an interrupted boning session with my first officer? You're _wallowing_ because you made out with the guy you have feelings for?!?" Jim stared at him. "This is a new level of miserly, Bones, even for you."

"Fuck you, Jim." Len leaned over to grab his PADD off of the floor and tossed it in Jim's direction. Bitterly, he added, "There's always my hangover, or the incredibly sterile and professional, 'This was a mistake, see you never' message I found when I woke up."

Jim reached slowly for the PADD, a heavy furrow to his brow. "You're kidding."

"I'm too exhausted."

"Take your hypo." Jim raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning quickly over the PADD. "And a shower."

"I'm not done wallowing."

"But you smell disgusting," Jim said. "Look, Bones, this--this message," he waved the PADD vaguely, "it just reads like he freaked out. Probably decided that not only had he taken advantage of a drunk guy, but he'd let himself ignore his duties for over an hour when he was meant to be in charge of the ship."

"That's ridiculous," Len said, hotly. "I--"

"Of course it's ridiculous; it's Spock!" Jim tossed the PADD back at Len with a roll of his eyes. "He's the most melodramatic, self-sacrificing jackass on the entire ship, excepting _possibly_ yourself!"

"Well, then what do you suggest?" Len asked sarcastically. "I take a shower and go propose to him in the middle of the bridge, just to prove I was in my right mind last night?"

"Yes to the shower; no to professing your love in public." Jim rose to his feet, stretching, and told him, "You don't have the time; you asked for day shifts, remember?"

Len pawed at the PADD, flicking on the screen and holding it close to his face so he could squint at the time scrawled in neat white font in the top corner of the screen.

"Shit."

* * *

The doors to Sickbay opened with a pneumatic hiss, and Len snapped, "If it's not life threatening or distractingly painful, it can wait till tomorrow."

"Does it count as life threatening if it's because Min will kill me if I can't get you to come with me?" Givens asked dryly. "Good to see her instincts are, as ever, on the money, though."

Len rubbed his thumb, hard, over the curve of his eyebrow, and then he turned, leaning back against the biobed he'd just finished recalibrating with a sigh. "What in the sam hill are you talkin' about, kid?"

"Kid." They whistled lowly. "Not exactly 'darlin'', but I'll take it."

"Why do all of the Lieutenants on this ship suddenly have it in their head that they deserve a nickname from me?" Len muttered. He watched Givens, suspiciously, as they sidled slowly into the room, pausing just when they'd crossed out of range of the sensor for the door.

They were a bit shy of six foot, average build, average brown hair, average number of teeth in their average grin, average human number of fingers on the average hand they used to jerk a thumb back towards the door. He couldn't for the life of him tell what it was that had left him so unsettled the night before.

"So, Min sent me a message, asking for a rescue? She's on shift today, see--"

"You aren't," Len pointed out.

"Was it the 'Carly Rae Jepsen' t-shirt that gave it away?" they deadpanned. "C'mon, Doc, work with me here for a second. It's important." They hesitated, and then- with the general aura of a puppy who thought they were about to be kicked- they added, "It's about Spock."

Len crossed his arms over his chest, deliberate-like. "Is there somethin' you're attemptin' to imply, Lieutenant?" he asked calmly.

Givens shoved their hands in their pockets and tilted their head briefly to the side, as if conceding the point. "So Min is on shift today, and apparently Spock is being particularly--" they cleared their throat. "Moody," they said, with an air of significance.

"He's not even supposed to be on shift right now," Len said irritably. "The man has to sleep _sometime_."

"Min seemed to think there was a strong possibility you were involved in whatever's got him worked up." Givens blinked, adding belatedly, "Sir."

Len surveyed them with a suspicious pinch to the corners of his eyes. His head, despite Christine's generous hypo dosage, was beginning to throb again.

"Do I wanna ask why?" he asked, sour like the lemonade his mama had made on a hot summer day.

"Woman's intuition?" Givens suggested. Len stared at them for a long moment, and then they sighed, adding, "You may have talked about Spock a _lot_ last night while you were drunk. Two and two says--"

"Gossip is unbecoming of a Starfleet officer, Lieutenant," Len ground out.

Givens shrugged. "What do I know?" they said, calmly. "I'm an engineer, and everybody knows engineers have their heads shoved so far up their asses they can't tell a transponder from a set of earplugs."

Silence descended over the Medbay for several agonizing seconds.

"Said that to you last night, did I?" Len finally asked.

"Yes, sir." Givens's lips twitched with amusement. "Talk about conduct unbecoming of a Starfleet officer, sir."

That was--that was--Well. Most people were too intimidated to call him on his shit; he was impressed. "You're a real asshole," he said, and Givens gave that little head tilt again.

"Only to people who deserve it, Doc," they told him cheerfully.

Len gazed at them for a moment, forcing himself to sublimate the bark of laughter that wanted to punch through his chest. "What'd you want again, Lieutenant?" he asked, fingers drumming over the starchy sleeve of his uniform shirt.

They jerked a thumb over their shoulder again. "Come with me, hopefully talk some sense into him? I owe Min a life debt that includes occasionally rescuing her from situations that entice her to commit murder."

Len nodded. "We've all been there regarding Commander Spock," he said dryly. "Alright." He unfolded his arms, slapping lightly at his thighs as he straightened. "You've convinced me. Lead the way, man."

"Thank you, Dr. McCoy."

"Thank me?" he scoffed, flapping an arm in annoyance as he breezed past Givens and then out of the Medbay. "I'm duty bound to protect the officers under my care, and apparently this is going to prevent two murders, Lieutenant; your own and Mr. Spock's."

"Oh, certainly, sir," they said dryly. "I do appreciate not dying."

"Yeah, yeah." Len reached for the controls of the turbolift, requesting gruffly, "Lab 7," and then leaned back against the wall as the lift whirred to life.

He watched Givens for a moment--average build, average height, average black hair, average politely cheerful expression. "Life debt?" he asked, eventually, as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to remember if he'd ever actually had this officer in for a physical. Maybe Christine had done it. But every year?

"Just a joke, sir."

Len lowered his hands, shaking off the feeling of unnerving. "You never know on this ship."

"You certainly don't, sir."

"Are you patronizing me, Lieutenant?" Len asked dryly, shooting them a glance.

"No, sir." Their lips twitched, and they turned their head, looking him over from his head to his toes. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir. You look like you could take me in a duel."

"Sure," Len said.

"High noon, ten paces, the whole schtick."

"We ended up at the OK Corral, on one of these away missions," Len told them. "Some sort of simulation, I don't remember. Spock pulled some Vulcan mind magic in us so their bullets couldn't even touch us."

"I believe it, sir," they said, as the turbolift eased to a stop.

"Do you?" Len shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he followed them out. "I was there, Lieutenant, and I still can't understand a lick of what I just said. Christ, this ship sure does something to a man."

"The ship?" Givens asked. "Or her Captain?"

Len tapped the side of his nose, glancing over at them appraisingly. "Oh, I like you more and more with every passing minute. What's your first name, kid?"

They laughed. "We're not that kind of friends, Doc," they said, dryly, and held open the door to the botany lab with an elaborate flourish. "After you."

Len stared through the door, at the ramrod line of Spock's shoulders and the neat line of his hair where it met his neck. He was metaphorically hunched over a computer screen, though his posture was too perfect for it to be literal, and Min- the only other scientist on duty, given they would be running light shifts until an hour before departure the next morning- had sequestered herself into the absolute furthest corner of the lab away from him.

"Right," Len said. He tipped an imaginary hat to Min as he crossed the room- she pointed at Spock and then did an elaborate mime of strangling him with a garrote- and came to parade rest just behind the chair that Spock wasn't using; his desk was extended up to its highest setting to allow him to stand.

"I am busy," Spock said, simply.

"Right," Len agreed. "Busy enough for your research to run--" he made a slow, deliberate show of using one hand to twitch back the opposite sleeve so he could check his watch-- "four hours over into the next shift." He folded his hands once more behind his back.

"Do you have a point, Doctor?" Spock murmured, scrawling something down on his PADD in a neat line of elegant Vulcan characters.

"Nope."

Spock's shoulders twitched slightly in surprise, and his eyes flicked up to meet Len's, briefly, in the reflection of the monitor. "Then you may leave."

Len hummed. He reached out to set a hand on the back of the desk chair, asking calmly, "May I?" and then pulled it out to sit without waiting for permission.

Givens and Min were whispering furiously in the far corner of the room, but he ignored them. He crossed his right ankle over his left knee and settled his hands over his stomach. He watched code scrawl endlessly across the screen, recognizing just enough to know some kind of simulation was being run.

"You have work to attend to, Doctor," Spock said, after two minutes of Min and Givens' indecipherable chatter, followed by five achingly silent minutes after Givens had finally left.

"This is work," Len retorted. "I'm seeing to the health and wellbeing of a member of this crew." Spock paused to look down at him with an expression on his face that may have been considered a glare, were he strictly human, and Len gave him a thin lipped smile. "No, by all means," he said dryly. "Carry on. It'll be much less paperwork on my part if I get to cart you off to Sickbay because you collapsed, instead of having to pull rank as CMO and force you to go to bed."

Spock's nostrils flared. "I am quite hale--"

"You've evidently taken it upon yourself to work for over twenty-four hours straight," Len said, sharply. "While we're on _light duty_."

With a frustrated, patronizing sort of tone, as if he were a teacher explaining the same concept for the tenth time, Spock began, "Though unwise for a human officer--"

Len slapped hand on the desk, hissing, "You are not a robot, Spock! You have to sleep, and rest, and eat, just like the rest of us! And the fact of the matter is that except for in an emergency situation, when we're in orbit, on shore leave, and working light duty, there is _nothing_ for any of us to do other than keep the ship in the air and take a _fucking_ load off! You won't be any good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground!"

Spock tugged at the bottom of his uniform shirt, straightening the minute wrinkle that had developed across several hours of typing at the keyboard. His dark eyes glanced across the room towards Min, and then back to the desktop. "If this is about our last exchange of written communication," he said, awkwardly, "I would prefer to discuss it at a later time."

"Don't flatter yourself," Len said sourly. "I'm here because a friend asked a favor by means of a third party; apparently you've been annoying the shit out of Dr. Sung. And like I said--" he rose to his feet, smoothing out his own uniform shirt with one broad, steady hand. "This is a medical concern, Spock. Do what you need to do to shut down the simulation and then scram; if you aren't asleep within the hour I'll be filing a report."

"Of course, Doctor."

His eyes were ice cold. Len could feel them on his back as he walked calmly from the room.

* * *

"Good afternoon!"

Len looked over at the cheery greeting, taking in the girl's neat, professional hairstyle and sparkling white grin, her feet that were nowhere near the desk, and the distinct absence of headphones. He grunted. "Ms. Delacourt not working tonight?"

The girl blinked. "It's--it's her night off." She raised her eyebrows, a slightly doubtful curl beneath her words as she asked, "Did you need her for some reason? I'm sure I could help."

"No, no. God, at least someone's taking sound medical advice and sleeping tonight." He dragged a hand down his face, and reluctantly added, "If anyone from the _Enterprise_ gives you trouble--"

"I've been instructed to contact…" She pulled a sticky note off of the desktop they used to log and track bookings. "'Captain Kirk, Room 312; and if Mr. McCoy from 125 tries to tell you any different, you tell him he already looks like--'" She broke off, face turning bright red. "Oh my."

Len tipped back his head, laughing. "I can guess, honey," he said, voice thick with amusement. "You pass along to Ms. Delacourt that her concern is noted."

"You're Mr. McCoy, then?" she asked, gaze flicking briefly over him. "I thought the cowboy thing was a joke."

He looked at her for a moment, and then he looked down at himself. He was still in his damn science blues; what the hell about this outfit read _cowboy_? "Right," he said sourly. "That's me. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Veronica Applebaum," she replied primly, reaching to replace the sticky note in its position of honor next to the power button. "At your service, sir."

"Well, Ms. Applebaum, you have a lovely night." Len gave her a nod, and he strolled on down towards his room.

"You, too, sir!" she called after him.

He waved a hand vaguely in acknowledgment.

When Len passed his keycard over the door and swung it open, he was _not_ greeted by the blissful, serene silence of an empty room. "Christ," he sighed, "not you, too."

Geoffrey M'Benga smiled at him charmingly, sprawled over the uncomfortable hotel armchair as Nyota painted his fingernails and Christine flipped through channels on the television. "Well, I missed all the fun last night in favor of sleeping like the dead for twelve hours straight, so I figured I'd join the girls in harassing you tonight, instead."

"'Fun'," Len repeated. "That's certainly one word for it."

"You had no complaints when you were still drunk enough to not be embarrassed of yourself," Nyota said tartly. "I see right through you, McCoy."

He sighed, fond despite himself, and ran a hand through his hair as he went to rifle through his bag for a change of clothes. Good thing he always overpacked, since these shameless freeloaders were apparently also stealing from him.

"I can paint yours, too," Nyota called after him, as he ducked into the bathroom. "Purple or black?"

"Whatever you'd like, darlin'." He tugged his shirts off in one movement, groaning at the feeling of cool air where the thermal undershirt had been plastered against his skin. "We can watch one movie, and then I'm kicking you all out of here. I need to _sleep_."

"There's never anything on this far out," Christine complained. "Just the Weather Channel, 'fleet news, and _Friends_ reruns."

"Which version?"

"The nineteen-nineties," Nyota said. "Can you believe it? 270 year old television, and they still think we care."

"There's always pay-per-view," Geoff pointed out.

Len stuck his head out, scowling. "You paying, M'Benga?"

"I'm sure I can manage, grumpy bear," he said dryly. "Put a shirt on."

"What are we watching, then?" Nyota asked, as Len grunted and flipped him off before disappearing back into the bathroom.

" _Die Hard_ ," Christine suggested.

"It's not Christmas! Let's watch the _Psycho_ remake--"

"God, no."

"No, the one from 2172; not 1998 or 2054."

"No horror," Len called from the bathroom, and Nyota sighed.

"Fine. What about thrillers?"

"Nothing that's going to make me think," Geoff groaned. "I'm on vacation."

"Comedy, then," Nyota mused. "Or maybe action."

Christine gestured primly with the remote. "And I repeat: _Die Hard_."

"I don't know why you like that movie so much. It's _ancient_."

"Are you even looking at the pay-per-view listings?" Len called, amused, as he tugged on a pair of flannel pajama pants--he _knew_ he was going to get made fun of for them, but Christ. They'd stolen all his sweatpants already.

"Ugh, so logical. Geoff, do you want polka dots?"

"Hell, yes. Do you think yellow?"

"Might get a little Ronald McDonald. Is blue too ra ra Americana for your tastes?"

"Ah, there's no white on them or anything. Let's go for it."

"So to pick from," Christine said, voice pitched unnecessarily loud to reach through the door to Len, "we've got about fifty different cartoon kids' movies that all seem to have a talking animal in them, an extensive horror category that Lenny's already nixed--"

"Don't get any ideas about calling me that, Geoff!"

"Oh, I've already made you a new nameplate for your office, Lenny."

"I should've never got on that damn shuttle."

"--an extensive drama category that _I_ would prefer to be nixed, and then a handful of comedies, a seemingly unending list of blockbuster action movies, a very promising selection of modern Bollywood classics, and every season of _Project Runway_. There's also a bunch of stuff from Betazed, but--"

Nyota hummed, frowning, as Len emerged, tossing his uniform on top of his bag and flopping down onto the bed next to Christine. "I really doubt this hotel has the proper setup to handle the psionic translation necessary for us to enjoy a Betazoid flick."

"I've already got a headache anyway," Len said, one hand clasped over his eyes. This bed felt _heavenly_. Christ, he wished he'd been spending more time in it. "I'd rather not, even if they did."

"Do they have that new one with Aditi Chopra?" Geoff asked. "In the Bollywood list."

"What new one?" Christine laughed, shooting him a glance. "You mean the one that came out right before we shipped out, actual literal years ago?"

Geoff shrugged, making Nyota hiss at him to keep his hands still. "I've been busy," he said dryly. "When am I supposed to have watched it? The intergalactic Netflix subscription costs an arm and a leg, and before I joined the _Enterprise_ mid-mission, I was on New Vulcan for my research."

"I get that," Nyota sighed. "The last five years have been a _whirlwind_ ; I had just started the last season of that Nichelle Michaels show when we shipped out, and I still have six episodes left."

"We all need to get a life," Len sighed. "I haven't watched a movie that Jim didn't forcibly hold me down for since…" he trailed off. "Christ, must've been before Joanna was born. Joss and I were too sleep deprived to go to the movies once we had a baby in the house."

Christine paused, looking down at him. "Lenny, your daughter is eleven."

"Yep."

"Jesus."

"Just pick something, mndani," Nyota sighed. "I think we've proven that none of us know anything about modern cinema; it's a shot in the dark, one way or another."

"Aditi Chopra," Christine declared, as the screen went dark, except for a little loading symbol crawling across the screen. "Just for you, Geoff."

"Aaaaand you're done." Nyota turned his hand one way and then the other, surveying it critically, and then nodded decisively. "I'll just have to put a topcoat on once the polka dots dry."

"Oh, I also invited the Captain and Spock," Christine said, shoving at Len's shoulder to make him sit up--then she stole the blanket out from under him, because Christine Chapel was nothing if not cruel. "I think Captain Kirk was taking Scotty to dinner, but he'll be along. Not sure about Spock."

Geoff raised his eyebrows and leaned back, kicking his feet up on the edge of the bed as he carefully folded his hands over his stomach. "Professional or personal on that dinner?"

"I didn't dare ask." Chris tipped her head to the side slightly, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. "But whatever it is, the Captain seemed _mighty pleased_."

"You're an intolerable gossip, Nurse Chapel," Len said dryly.

She looked at him, utterly unabashed. "Why, do you know something?"

"Jim doesn't talk much about his love life, but I know he's incredibly leery about the optics on any sort of affair he might have within the crew. It's probably just a thank you for Scotty humoring us on not spending his whole leave aboard ship." Len folded an arm beneath his head, yawning, as a dazzling array of dancers spun their way around the screen. "We had to have an intervention when we saw his duty requests after the roster came out."

Christine made a noise in the back of her throat. "Is that what all that yelling was about?"

"That, and those ensigns he sent to recalibrate the biobeds royally screwed the pooch. Finally remembered to redo them all this morning."

"That explains some things," Geoff said dryly. "I had one officer come in about a sprained knee, and then the alarms started going off about a _heart attack_ when I had her lay down so I could wrap it. I was going to check out the settings, but you showed up to relieve me early."

Nyota nudged Len with the side of her foot, having taken up residence between him and Christine on the bed, her back leaned against the headboard and long legs folded in front of her. "Is Spock going to come?" she asked.

He shrugged, evasive. "Christine invited him," he said gruffly. "Ask her."

"Lenny."

He lay there in silence for a moment, one hand resting on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. "I really doubt it," he admitted. Aditi Chopra was crying, beautifully, on screen.

"I thought you two were past that," Geoff said, frowning. "I'm torn between my protective instincts as your friend, and my protective instincts as Michael's appointed representative aboard ship. Whose ass do I need to kick?"

"Michael?" Christine repeated.

"Spock's sister," Nyota provided.

Len jerked upright so quickly he nearly knocked himself off of the bed. "Spock has a _sister_?"

"Oh my god," Christine whispered. "I knew he was too good at arguing to be an only child."

Len waved a hand. "That doesn't mean anything; he's Jewish. _And_ a Vulcan."

"She's adopted," Geoff explained. "Michael Burnham? You've probably heard of her. She took a leave of absence of about a year from her post on _Discovery_ when Vulcan--"

"When Amanda Grayson died," Len said quietly.

The room grew silent for a moment. "Yeah," Geoff said, eventually. "It was nice having another human around, so we grew pretty close during the months we were both there. She asked me to keep an eye on him when she found out I was taking a station on the flagship."

"That's cute," Christine said. "No wonder he never argues when you're his doctor; he knows you'll report him back to big sister."

"He actually also has an older brother," Nyota told them. "From Sarek's first marriage."

"That I did not know." Geoff shook his head, looking amused. "I have never met a family more close lipped about their relations," he said dryly. "It was the day before Michael left to return to her ship that I found out she even knew Sarek, much less was related to him."

"I need to lay down," Len said, and he flopped back flat on the bed.

"We're getting distracted." Nyota nudged him with her foot again. She gave him an expectant look, one brown hand reaching out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

He sighed, wriggling a bit to get more comfortable, and said gruffly, "Well, first Spock thought the three of us--" he gestured between himself and the girls-- "were dating, and he handled it poorly. Then he found out we weren't and professed his 'respect' for me, I told him I felt the same way, he kissed me, Jim interrupted us with a comm. Then this morning I woke up to a charming memo letting me know he regretted the entire situation, and I ended up having to pull rank to force him to go to sleep instead of working for thirty-six hours straight for no reason. We haven't talked since."

Christine whistled, low and slow. "You've got a knack, McCoy."

"For having a life like a soap opera?" Len asked dryly.

"Pretty much." Nyota reached down to stroke his hair, her smile a little rueful as she told him, "It'll work out alright, Lenny. At least until one of you gets cancer or is murdered by an evil twin, I guess."

"No wonder Spock didn't respond to your comm, Chris." Geoff shook his head, tutting quietly. "This is why I don't date."

"This is why you don't date," Christine repeated doubtfully. "This _exact_ situation is why you don't date." She placed her thumb and forefinger together, eyes rolling as she said, "The possibility that your sexy Vulcan lover will break up with you before you even start dating, is the reason that you don't date."

"Yes, exactly." Geoff studied his red nails and their dark blue polka dots, looking far too amused with the entire situation. "I don't date just in case I end up in a mutually antagonistic relationship with the first officer of my ship that develops into mutual respect and sexual tension, right before devolving back into mutual antagonism."

"I hate all of you," Len said, as Christine and Nyota exploded into laughter. "Watch your damn movie, Geoffrey, and shut the hell up about my love life."

"But it's so fun to talk about your love life," Jim said, as he let himself in. He flashed a keycard between his index and middle fingers, giving a rakish grin. "That night manager really likes you, Bones."

"Christ, she gave one to you, too?" Len grunted as Jim climbed across him to sprawl across the foot of the bed, dropping his feet on Len's stomach as he leaned on his elbows. There were, Len was pretty sure, entire sections of the Geneva Convention devoted to the war crime that was James Tiberius Kirk's socked feet. "Pretty sure Spock was right about her hating me, actually."

"Kid deserves a raise after all of this," Jim declared, and Len mimed as if cheersing to that. "What are we watching?" Jim asked, and Christine tossed him a pillow to prop himself up with.

"The latest Aditi Chopra film." Nyota leaned her cheek on Christine's shoulder, humming, and stretched out her legs to tuck her toes beneath Jim's thigh. "Did you know about Lenny and Spock?"

Jim rolled over onto his back to squint at Nyota. "Who the hell is Lenny?"

"I am, apparently," Len grunted. "Worst nickname I've gotten since 'Bones'. And yes, he does."

"Wow." Jim laid a hand over his heart. "That one hurt."

"Forget Lenny's drama." Christine kicked Jim lightly, demanding, "Did you know Spock had a sister?"

Jim froze. "What?"

"He also has a brother," Nyota said dryly.

" _What_?" Jim whipped around to stare at Len. "Did you know about this?" he hissed.

"Why the hell would I know about this?" Len threw his hands in the air. "You know him better than I do! And is _anyone_ going to bother watching this movie that Geoff paid eighteen credits for?"

"Oh my god, this is turning into a _Three Stooges_ sketch," Nyota groaned, burying her face in Christine's shoulder. "Who's going to get hit in the face with a pie?"

"Jim," Len said flatly, at the same moment as Jim declared, "Bones." They looked at each other, then chorused, "Christine."

"Hey!"

"Face it, sweetheart; you've got the nose for it."

"What the _hell_ does that--"

_Rap. Rap. Rap._

Len frowned at Christine, who grimaced, and Jim laid back to peer at Geoff, who spread his manicured hands wide in a shrug.

"Did someone order food?" Nyota asked doubtfully.

"Maybe the night manager had something sent over," Jim suggested. "She and Bones have this weird love-hate relationship."

"Ms. Delacourt isn't working tonight." Len groaned, clamping a hand over his eyes as Aditi Chopra's lilting soprano curled throughout the room. "His pointed ears must've been burning."

"Well!" Christine reached over to punch Len's shoulder. "Go answer the door!"

"Why do I have to do it?" he hissed, even as he shoved at Jim's legs so he could get up.

"It's your hotel room!" Nyota hissed back.

He pointed at her furiously. "Not the way you people have been treating it! I want my pants back, Lieutenants!"

"He's your--" Geoff waved a hand. "Y'know."

Len snarled, "He's _Jim's_ first officer!"

"I'm on leave," Jim said dryly. "It's all on you, Kentucky Fried Romeo."

Len threw open the door, just as Spock had raised his hand to rap lightly once more. They stood there for a moment, both frozen in place--despite all of the preparation and the ranting, Len felt a bit like all of the air had been knocked out of his chest.

Spock lowered his hand slowly. "Nurse Chapel had indicated that my presence would be welcome," he said, folding his hands behind his back. After a moment of hesitation, his eyes flicking over Len's shoulder towards the shamelessly eavesdropping hooligans behind him, he lowered his voice to add, "I did not know they had continued to commandeer your hotel room, Doctor."

Of course. Why else would he come?

Len rubbed at his brow, sighing. "I can go, Spock. I need some sleep at some point anyway."

Spock balked. "I do not believe that is necessary." He hesitated, again, a new and bizarre facet of their relationship where it had always been defined by words that came too fast and too heated, one way or another. "Unless you do not wish to fraternize with myself."

With a sigh- and his own glance over his shoulder, to which Christine and Jim both gave him a thumbs up- Len stepped outside of the hotel room (Spock took a hasty step back) and closed the door behind himself with a muted click. He leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest and surveying Spock with a grim expression.

"What do _you_ want, Spock?" Len asked. "Because this isn't about me. I didn't send that damn memo. I wanted this--" he pointed between the two of them-- "to have a chance to turn into something. Maybe it wouldn't have and we'd've ended up dancin' around each other all awkward for a month like you and Nyota did 'til you pulled your heads out of your asses and remembered you were friends before you were lovers, but I at least wanted to take that chance."

Spock frowned heavily. "You gave me no indication, Doctor, that that _was_ what you wanted."

Len stared at him. "No indica-- No indication? Are you kiddin' me, Spock? What the hell do you think it means when a guy lets you straddle him on the couch? 'Let's do lunch'?"

"You were drunk," Spock snapped. "I allowed myself to hear what I wanted to hear and took advantage of a friendship that has taken _years_ to develop. I tried to apologize, Doctor, in a way that allowed you to maintain whatever level of distance between us that you desired--"

"I keep telling you that by the time I had--" Len began ticking things off sarcastically on his fingers-- "wandered from the bar back to the hotel, and then sat around for a while in the freezing cold, and then trudged on back to the transport site, got beamed up, made it most of the way to my room, had a conversation with _you_ \--!" Len prodded him in the chest-- "And then entertained the idea that you actually _did_ have feelings for me the same way I have feelings for you, I was _pretty goddamn sober_! That memo didn't read like an _apology_ , Spock; you told me you regretted our actions--"

"My actions, Doctor! Mine! I ignored my duty to the ship--!"

"For the love of god, man," Len growled. "You dropped everything to go help Jim do paperwork! You didn't exactly abandon your post!"

"You do not understand," Spock insisted.

"So explain it to me!"

"I jeopardized two of the most meaningful relationships in my life, Leonard! Starfleet and--" His hand came up, sharply, and then just as abruptly slowed, coming to rest palm flat against the door next to Len's shoulder. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed. "And you. I worried that I had done something that I could not take back. You, Jim, Nyota, you are--as close to me as my own family."

"After everything I learned today, I'd even believe closer," Len muttered, and Spock shot him a glare.

"Doctor. You do not make these things easy."

"Would you want me to?" Len asked dryly, and reached out, tentative, to pull him closer by the loose fabric of a casual Vulcan robe. "Let me ask you again," he said, with less than an inch between them in the middle of a hotel hallway, with an ugly carpet beneath his bare feet. "What do you want, Mr. Spock? This is your indication."

"Ah." His dark eyes glittered with something like amusement--but warmer. Richer. "I do appreciate when you humans make your subtext into the text. I find our interactions much simpler to parse."

"I appreciate it when _your_ subtext isn't a footnote on page 756," Len muttered. "Are you gonna kiss me or what?"

Spock brushed his nose against Len's cheek, his breath fanning out over his jaw in an inaudible sigh. "Or what," he murmured, drawing back.

Len blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Our Captain, my ex-girlfriend, and two of your direct subordinates are eavesdropping on the other side of this door," Spock said. "We shall have to revisit this at another time."

"Christ." Len lifted his head just so he could drop it back against the door with a thunk. "I hate it when you're right."

"You must hate 'it' very often, Doctor."

"Shut the fuck up, Mr. Spock; before I kick you out of my movie night."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I am invited in, then?"

"There may not be anywhere for you to sit," Len admitted. "But you're welcome any time, Spock."

"Good," Spock said.

"Good?" Len repeated, furrowing his brow, and then the door at his back was suddenly not there anymore.

"Oh!" Nyota said, her red mouth in a perfect 'O' of surprise as she placed a hand in front of it, eyes glittering with mischief. "Sorry, I thought you were knocking to come back in!"

Len ran a hand down his face tiredly. "You're a piece of work, Uhura," he muttered, as Jim and Christine laughed their asses off.

Spock had caught him in a dip, you see; one arm around his back, the other holding his hand like they were doing the tango. "Doctor," he said, perfectly straight faced, "I was under the impression that 'falling for someone' was an idiom."

Ah, yes. That was enough to get Geoff laughing, too.

* * *

Len stepped out of the turbolift and onto the bridge, breathing in deep and then releasing it all at once.

"Bones!" Jim said, cheerfully, spinning the chair just far enough for him to easily throw a dazzling grin over his shoulder. "Good of you to join us. We're just about to ship out. Shore leave--" he smoothed hand down his command gold, his Captain's stripes glinting at his wrist-- "Is officially over."

"Would you believe me if I said I was glad?" Len took up his position at Jim's right shoulder, sighing, as he folded his hands behind his back. "Vacations are well and good, but there's something about coming home again when it's all said and done."

"Vell said, Doctor," Chekov told him. "I feel much the same."

"Yeah, me too." Sulu laughed, sprawling comfortably in his flight chair for this moment in orbit where his vigilance was unneeded. "I mean, _home_ is Ben and Demora, but the _Enterprise_ is a home away from them."

Nyota sniffed. "You all need to get a life," she deadpanned--and a split second later cracked into laughter. "God, I couldn't do it. Yeah, yeah, sappy sentiments all around." She waved a vague hand. "We all know Jim and Spock would get buried on this ship if it were physically possible."

"Oh," Jim said. "I have some ideas."

"That's disgusting," Len told him. "That's--Jim, that's disgusting. People have to live here. It smells stale enough without your damn ashes floating around in the ventilation shafts or wherever the hell you were going with that."

"Ew!" Jim jerked around in his chair, looking horrified. "Bones, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

He threw his hands in the air, saying hotly, "You implied it, Jim!"

"I meant, like--" Jim gestured, his hands frantic and wide. "I don't know, an urn in the ready room or something!"

"Oh, even better," Len said sarcastically. He thumped the back of Jim's chair, snatching his hand up into a fist near his chest as he went. "Fifty years from now some poor schmuck is having a strategy meeting while being blasted by Klingons, and a bit of turbulence knocks Captain James Tiberius Kirk's ashes all over the table!"

"It could be--Bones, it could be _sealed_." Jim leaned toward him, lowering his voice. "I repeat: What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

"I was wrong," Nyota said dryly. " _This_ is the _Three Stooges_ sketch."

"Spock," Jim demanded. "You've been inside his brain before. What the hell is wrong with him?"

"I refuse to participate in this pointless conversation, Captain."

"I mean," Sulu said, sounding like he regretted the words even as they left his mouth, "welds aren't foolproof, right? Even if it were sealed…"

Len leaned his elbow on Jim's chair, ignoring the increasingly heated argument happening next to him as Chekov began to weigh in as well, and watched Spock for a moment. Long, clever fingers were already flying over the virtual keys of the projected glass keyboard, and the line of his back was an unbroken curve as he gazed down into that unending blue light that he seemed to find so fascinating. The bowlcut, he decided, was almost flattering under the proper lighting.

Spock glanced over, catching him looking. He smirked in that tiny, Vulcan way of his, and straightened fully away from the science station to take several smooth steps closer.

Len bit back his own smirk, and he didn't move to let Spock step easily around him as he crossed to Jim's other shoulder. Their fingers brushed. Spock took the opportunity to push forward a blast of emotion--amusement and fondness and something they both shied away from naming for what it was.

It was so _soon_. This whole thing had barely taken four days--

Four days, Len thought wryly, that followed on the heels of the better part of a decade, spent living practically out of each other's pockets; supporting and reigning in Jim in equal measure; building the framework for something that could be everything, and _certainly_ wasn't nothing. A deep, honest friendship, if nothing else.

My, wasn't that a thought. Leonard McCoy, the old country doctor, on a starship in space with a Vulcan looking at him like that.

"We must depart, Captain," Spock said, turning his gaze away from Len; his voice calmly and clearly cut through the not-yelling happening around them.

"Of course," Jim said, straightening in his chair, and when he crossed one leg over the other--

The bridge crew snapped to attention. _Now_ shore leave was over, Len thought to himself, amused.

"Pull us out of orbit, Mr. Sulu," Jim said. "And then I'm thinking Warp 3--give Scotty and the rest of the engineers a bit of a warm-up."

"Yes, Captain."

Slowly, the viewscreen before them turned away from the tiny, grey-green planet of Melnasz VII- not a cloud visible in its terraformed sky- and up to the heavens, which existed in any arbitrary direction here in space.

"Goodbye, Ms. Delacourt," Len said. "I won't miss you. Hope you enjoyed that envelope I left behind."

Jim laughed. "You're such a softie, Bones."

"Supposedly," he said with a shrug, "I'm a cowboy. So yeehaw, Jimmy; let's see what this old gal can do."

"Touché." Jim grinned up at him for a moment, and then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You heard the man, Mr. Sulu--

"Engage."


End file.
